Drunk-scapades!
by 3ofDiamonds
Summary: Dean wants to forget, and alcohol seems like the way to do it. Castiel's along for the ride, learning this concept of 'fun.' What happens when a man and an angel let their guards down and tip their glasses up? / Part 2: Date-scapades! Dean's determined to show Castiel he's more than a drunken regret. But in the face of (semi-)sobriety, what if what Castiel asks is simply too much?
1. Chapter 1 - The Boot

_((Author's Note:_ _I started this story as a fluffy humor piece with no set plot that began to grow into it's own beast as it went along. Some things you may encounter on this ride include but are not limited to: adult themes, DESTIEL, irresponsible consumption of alcohol, sudden smut, reluctant bisexuality, slow-burn-to-smut, awkwardness, and more angst than originally intended. Thank you for joining me on this journey, feel free to comment/review, and most of all, have fun.))_

* * *

"Anything else you'd like?"

The clean glass rolled over in her hands, the towel squeaking around the edge as it polished. Dean took a breath, pursed his lips out slightly, inclining his head to take her in from underneath a raised eyebrow. This move was well rehearsed, and she regarded him with a slight twitch of her lip—the only give-away beneath her own perfected unimpressed-bartender persona.

"I can think of something."

"It better be something on the shelf."

He smirked, "Another, sure."

She turned with a slight flick of her dark hair over her shoulder, moving for the third or fourth time to the bottle poised inconspicuously between the liquor meant to be enjoyed, and the rotgut sitting in the rails. Dean's gaze wandered downward thoughtfully as she walked away.

"Oh, there is something you could answer for me." His eyes flicked back to her face as she turned, whiskey from the bottle pouring in a steady stream into the glass she held with her other hand. She flashed him a knowing look, letting the bottle remain upturned just a little too long. He returned a sly smile as he received the glass filled over its normal pour, nodding slightly in approval.

"And what is that?" She leaned against the bar, arms spread in a V from her shoulders in an open gesture.

"Did it hurt?"

She cocked her head and squinted. No way, this line. "When I fell from heaven, right?"

With an exaggerated grimace, he sucked in his breath, shrugging his shoulders helplessly. She sneered, standing up straight. "No, but I did break a nail when I clawed my way out of Hell."

He was taken aback. The bartender poignantly snapped a towel from the counter, turning her back on the man with the leather jacket to tend to a countertop that suddenly needed urgent attention on the other end of the long bar. He raised his glass in her direction, but she was gone.

"Trust me, honey. No way I actually mistook you for an angel," he said into his glass before downing it. He cast a glance over his right shoulder to see if anyone caught his stung pride. When he turned back, he jumped at the unexpected figure perched on the stool next to him, the slight flail of his arm sending the empty shooter rolling across the wood top.

"Hello, Dean."

"Sonofabitch." He righted his glass, composing himself at the bar top. The man in the trench coat turned his head inquisitively.

"The meaning of that phrase still eludes me."

Dean ran his eyes quickly around the room, scanning for anyone who caught the angel's sudden appearance. They landed on a man standing two heads higher than himself, shoulders and arms bulging at the seams of his shirt, making his way towards them. His expression and intent suggested he only saw Dean's display with the glass.

"Alright, boys. That's enough," his voice was gruff, resolute as he gestured with a thumb towards the door.

"C'mon, man I didn't even—" Dean swiveled on his seat, his face coming square with the man's chest. The bouncer crossed his arms, bringing more attention to his giant stature, to which Dean alternated between a quip about his cleavage and _not_ ending the night in a bar brawl.

"C'mon, Cas," he muttered, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets while heading for the door. Castiel looked after him, unsure of what had just transpired.

"Hey, go keep an eye on your girlfriend, would'ya?"

Castiel squinted into the hulking man's face, standing slowly.

"He's not my…" he trailed off uncertainly, before Dean's rough hand gripped his shoulder and turned him towards the door.

The bar door slammed resolutely with years of neglected hinges announcing their exit. The few patrons turned their attention back to their glasses, and the raven-haired bartender pursed her lips in a faint expression of disappointment before returning to her unwashed dish-ware.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Car

The keys jingled their way out of his pocket towards the slick-black shine of the Impala's door.

Castiel shot a look back towards the building, standing stiffly on the other side of the car.

"Are you sure you should do that?"

"C'mon, Cas, I'm not a teenager, I've had like two."

The angel quirked an eyebrow.

"Alright, maybe three. Four, max." He straightened indignantly, leaving the key dangling from the lock. "Y'know, what? The way I do it, that's barely enough to get me buzzed, let alone…impaired."

"I just worry… for your safety."

"Dammit, Cas, you don't have to believe the guy and start acting like my wife," he grumbled. "You're a side-piece, at best."

Castiel wasn't sure what the term meant exactly, but he caught the tone, and looked away. Dean frowned, rolled his eyes, and opened the door.

"Get in."

He obeyed.

The pulsing drive of the music flared to full blast with the car's ignition. Dean bobbed his head to the beat, determined to not let the minor incident clout his good time. It wasn't his first time getting the boot from a bar, though most other offenses were much more deserving. That's what he gets for not picking a total dive tonight.

"Where are we going?" Cas raised his voice over the din of the music, watching the streetlights pass by one after another out the window.

"Someplace with a little less atmosphere." The engine purred beneath the wail of a guitar solo.

"What's the purpose?"

"Purpose? I suppose you mean 'occasion,' and that is very simple, my friend," Dean leaned in with a sharp curve of the road, letting the wheel slide against his palm as it straightened out. "Going on my fourth shapeshifter in the bag, I've got an inclination to measure just how much booze it takes to wipe the image of ganking myself right out of my pretty little face," He smiled towards Castiel in the passenger seat. "Capiche?"

Castiel looked at the driver, noticing the glint in his eye. It was not one that matched his smile, which was broad and shining, but a dark shadow that cast over one eye where his eyebrow slanted, no doubt the place where the image he described scraped at the edges of his thought. Castiel pulled his lips taught in what he hoped was a convincing grin to match. "Sounds fun."

Dean nodded in agreement, regaining his attention of the road that stretched out before them, dotted with increments of dark and light patches where the street lamps didn't quite reach each other. He glanced to the passenger seat once, then twice, before Castiel returned his look inquisitively. The angel always took off between silent moments, without warning, yet tonight he seemed intent on staying. Dean smirked.

"Just checking to see if you're still there," he said, barely loud enough over the music.

"I've no pressing matters taking precedence."

"Ah," Dean nodded slowly, pursing his lips. "So boredom on Angel Avenue is what it takes for you to stoop to a night of fun with the humans, huh?"

Castiel quirked his head at the driver. "I…—"

He trailed off, rolling the words around in his head. He wished there were more opportunities for nights where he wasn't needed elsewhere, when there wasn't so much to be done.

"Don't sweat it. So long as you're here, might as well do some damage," Dean rolled the car to a stop, shifting the gear to park with a halt. Castiel waited for his cue, and both men climbed from their seats in the Impala.

The sign glared "ed's Den," with the first letter 'R' blinking unsteadily with a hum. The intermittent clack of pool balls mixed with the buzz of conversation, the shouting of a gentlemen on his tenth drink, the occasional breaking of glass, and the laughter of a good time. Dean paused at the entrance, breathing in the security of a total dive, as Castiel let the door close behind them.


	3. Chapter 3 - The Dive

"What'll it be," The blonde behind the bar met eyes with the approaching customers as they sidled onto their stools. She sized them up, adding charmingly, "…gentlemen."

Dean perched his forearm on the bar top, leaning in to meet her gaze with a smirk, clearly at home.

"Whiskey, neat." He winked, "You can keep the ice."

"You can keep the sweet talk, sugar," she fired back, though a subtle upward twitch played at her lips. He grinned, mentally folding his list of easy pick-up lines he was about to scroll through. Some chicks were all subtle glances, playful smiles. She turned her attention to the other.

"How about you?"

Castiel was looking off, brow furrowed. At the sound of Dean's cleared throat, he became aware of the girl behind the bar. His mouth opened slightly, then shut as he looked to Dean for help. The bartender quirked an eyebrow.

"Make it two," Dean flashed his winning smile at her, which faded abruptly to an annoyed glance at Castiel once she turned her back to retrieve their order.

"Come on, Cas. At least act like you've been on Earth before."

"This place is…" he trailed off, taking another sweeping glance about the room, "…disorderly. Disreputable." His eyes met the other man's. "Filthy."

"It has its own flavor." He regarded her with a nod as the blonde delivered two small glasses of brown liquid. Dean took his, swirling the contents. "As do its inhabitants." He raised the cup toward Castiel.

Castiel mirrored his gesture uncertainly, taking hold of his whiskey and lifting it. Dean's expression turned austere as he cocked his head to the side, looking toward the ceiling with thought. He began to speak with an air of reverence.

"To the individuals who keep watch over this miserable, God-forsaken, spinning ball of crap," Dean locked eyes with Castiel, quirking an eyebrow. "Though they may be disorderly, disreputable," he clinked the edge of his cup to Castiel's and added with a wink, "and best of all, filthy."

The glass touched his mouth and followed his head back as it tilted, which kept him from seeing the small smile playing on the angel's lips. Castiel watched the lump at Dean's throat dip with the swallow, then followed suit, draining his own cup. He didn't react to the burn of the liquid, but Dean sucked air slowly through his teeth, giving his head a small shake.

"That's some pretty rough brew you got there," he grimaced as the bartender approached again. She leaned in on the counter, the straps of her black top straining against the forward momentum. Dean failed to ignore the display, but found eye contact quickly enough as to not seem crude.

"Maybe you want to move up a shelf, then?" She darted the tip of her tongue to the corner of her smile. At his nod, she retreated, satisfied with his raised eyebrows.

"Make it two!" he called after her. Dean turned his wide eyes on Castiel, who did not return the expression of amusement. Dean made a mock-serious face back at Castiel. He called again after her, "Make it three!"

"I don't need—"

"Come on, man. Lighten up!" Dean clapped Castiel on the shoulder, giving him a squeeze and a small shake. "I call today a win, and I deserve a little celebratory fun for that, don't I?"

"If by 'fun,' you mean to mate with the barmaid at any moment on this very surface, then I might venture elsewhere."

"Cas, please!" Dean admonished, then lowered his voice, "they prefer 'bar _wench_ '!"

They both turned at the sound of her cleared throat, Dean with a mocking grin and Castiel with a scowl. The blonde set the glasses before them, three in a row.

"Anything else you'd like?"

Dean pursed his lips, squinting up from under his eyebrows.

"I can think of someth—"

"Five more of these."

The girl and Dean both started, breaking their flirty gaze to look at Castiel. He glanced between them, then pointed uncertainly at the glass.

"Whiskies," he clarified.

She regarded him with surprise, then looked at Dean, who shrugged. Taking the silence as an unfinished order, Castiel added, "Please, _bar wench_."

Her mouth dropped open, then shut. She turned abruptly, her face taut with indignation.

"It's Melanie," she tossed over her shoulder. Dean's own aghast face turned towards him, mouth hanging in shock. Castiel returned his look with a question mark.

"That is the term?"

"You don't call them that!"

"But you said—"

"I was joking!" He slid a palm over his face, rubbing his jawline in exasperation.

"I see." Castiel's gaze dropped at the reprimand. A grin crept over Dean's features. He began to chuckle. Castiel's intense expression softened as Dean's amusement deepened to a hearty laugh.

"Geez, man, I thought you'd be my wing man," Dean gripped one of the three glasses before him and dumped it into another. With a flick, the cup scooted toward the angel, the brown liquid sloshing back and forth.

" _Wing man_?"

"Yeah, y'know," he nodded towards the bartender, "I take blondie and you can have, uh…"

Dean scanned the room, his gaze landing on a small, short-haired girl with dark eyes and two full sleeves of tattoos running down her arms working the other side of the bar. He nodded toward her, "Take Elvira over there."

Castiel looked, squinting toward the end of the bar, then turned an expression verging on glowering at Dean.

"What, not your type?"

"I am not interested in pursuing sexual intercourse with her, no," he replied flatly.

"Well, your loss," Dean took the glass in front of him, "She's cuter than me."

He raised his glass to Castiel, who was looking at him with an unreadable expression. Dean shifted, clearing his throat. Slowly, Castiel met his own glass to Dean's. _Clink._ Dean finished first, having half as much, and watched Castiel finish the last drop.

"You feel anything yet?"

Castiel smacked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "A slight burning sensation."

"No, I mean," Dean peered into his face, checking for any signs: redness of eyes, flushed features. Castiel seemed normal Castiel. "I mean, do you feel warm at all, tingly, a little slow in the grapefruit?" Dean pointed at his own head, tapping his temple twice.

Castiel shook his head. "I feel…fine."

"Here you are, boys," Melanie returned, five of the same glasses stacked on one another. She pointedly ignored Castiel, turning her shoulder to him and her 'better side' to Dean as she placed and unstacked them in a line on the bar.

"Now you better take it easy there," she warned, "I don't want to have to clean puke off my bar."

"Perfectly fine, " Dean nudged his friend and winked playfully. "The guy's a tank."

He slid four of the five glasses in front of Castiel, taking one for himself. Castiel eyed them with peculiar intensity. Dean watched him, sipping his own cup instead of shooting it this time.

"Hey, you ordered them," Dean said after a moment. "Plus, you've got some catching up to do. I'm feeling pretty good!"

Castiel looked up, nodding once.

"If you wish me to be your…wing man…" Castiel turned his attention back to the cups laid out in front of him. "I suppose I might as well attempt to become intoxicated along with you."

This drew a burst of laughter from Dean and he clapped his friend on the back once more.

"That's the spirit!"

One by one the angel lifted a cup to his lips, and tossed it back. Two, three, four. His face remained expressionless, drawing a peculiar glance from the bartender as he finished. Dean appeared delighted by the display, shaking his head and smiling as he sipped his own drink.

"Cas, you would have been a riot in college." He paused, cup near his face, "If I went to college." He shrugged, finishing the glass. He kept his eyes closed a moment, breathing deeply. The slight sway in his shoulders told Castiel that the man's body was absorbing the alcohol and affecting his faculties. Dean opened his eyes and gave a slight shake of his head, then tilted his neck side to side, popping sounds emanating from the motion. He rolled his shoulders, and like a blanket of relaxation falling over him, he grinned easily at Castiel.

"Are you having fun yet?"

Castiel studied the man, and did a mental sweep of his own body, twitching his fingers beneath the bar. He didn't feel any different, though the amount he had consumed was near equal to Dean at this point. It wasn't the first time he had imbibed with the hunter, and he knew his capacity to 'hold his liquor' was astronomically larger than that of a normal human's. Still, looking into Dean's rough features softened by the numbness of alcohol, he knew somewhere inside that the man wished the angel to feel the same anesthesia brought on by the drinks. That it represented a camaraderie Castiel had found rare to be asked of by Dean. He wished for this closeness, and attempted to mirror his sloshy movements, plopping his arm on the bar with a sloppy thud.

"Of course. I always have fun with you, Dean."

Dean eyed him suspiciously. His words were too crisp, too clean. He scrunched his face, shaking his head.

"Castiel, you don't even get sarcasm. How are you mocking me?"

Castiel blinked at the accusation. He dropped the act, knowing it hadn't worked. He leaned in emphatically to Dean, staring intensely into his eyes.

"I wish you to have a good time," his low, gruff voice barely carried over the noise of the bar, but he was close enough for Dean to hear him. Dean leaned back slightly at the proximity, eyebrows raised. Castiel kept the distance set between their faces, but closed the space between them beneath the bar with a touch of his hand, resting it gently on the man's knee. He continued, "If that means bedding this alcohol-providing woman tonight, I want that for you."

Dean stared back into the intense blue eyes, dumbfounded. The sensation of contact registered dimly, then exploded with a sudden jerk of his body away from Castiel. He twisted on the stool, standing abruptly.

"Gotta take a leak."

He adjusted his jacket around his shoulders, faltering only slightly before setting off towards the men's room. Castiel watched his back as he disappeared through the door, and turned to meet eyes with Melanie, who was examining him from a ways down the bar. Her face held a knowing. She turned and busied herself with a bottle that suddenly needed wiping, her lips pressed together.

Castiel sighed, setting his idle hands to work stacking the empty glasses before him. He blinked as a full one appeared before him, filled twice as much as the others before. He looked up to the blonde's face, whose brass smirk was replaced with a tender smile. She seemed to have forgiven his earlier remark.

"Men," she tossed, shaking her head. "You can't change 'em."

Castiel stared up at her a moment, then nodded once, acknowledging the gift she made of the whiskey. He tucked his chin, eyes trailing down the path the man had taken.

"I have no desire to," he muttered to himself. The girl had left already.


	4. Chapter 4 - The Store

"Who needs atmosphere—we're bringing the party home!" The engine purred as Dean wheeled down the street, Red's Den fading in the distance of the rearview mirror. Castiel sat in the passenger's seat, opening and closing his hands into fists. He watched the movement, wondering if he was finally feeling the effects of the alcohol—or just wishing he was. He caught Dean's eye watching him from the driver's side.

"You alright there, Kemosabe?"

Castiel stared blankly, then gave a curt nod. "Perfectly fine."

Dean chuckled, turning his attention back to the road. He gripped the wheel loosely, seeming relaxed as he drove.

"Are _you_ alright?" Castiel countered after a moment.

"Perfectly fine," Dean growled, low in his throat, then cast a smirk towards Castiel.

"Is that supposed to be me?"

"Listen, Cas. It takes a lot more than this to worry me behind the wheel." The road took a sharp turn, and Dean navigated it with smooth confidence, as if on cue. "I almost hate to admit it, but I'm damn near a professional drunk driver."

"Are you drunk?" The question was simple, genuine.

"Not yet. Tolerance can be a bitch." He looked pensively down the road, then threw on his blinker. "But I know a way we can fix it."

The Impala slowed to a roll, waiting for what seemed like the only other car on the road to pass before turning left onto another street. A heavily lit building sat at the end of the long stretch of pavement.

"Screw having to share your misery with strangers—they mark up the prices over four times, d'you know that?" Dean thought of his last tab with the addition of Castiel's participation—far more than enough to get any normal human sloshed in that amount of time. Not that the card he handed over had his name on it, per se, but going shot-for-shot to see how far Castiel's superhuman tolerance went was sure to draw unwanted attention after a while. He glanced to the side again—Castiel hardly seemed affected. "Plus—you leave for two seconds and the cute girls act like they weren't throwing themselves at you a minute ago."

Dean scoffed, and Castiel turned his head toward the window, watching the street poles pass by.

The multi-colored lights came into focus as they approached—Logos advertising various types of beer and liquor the little shop offered. A sign flashed and blinked, scrolling its message across a lighted board: " _Beer! …. Liquor! … Cheap! …Open Late!"_

A man in a trucker hat shuffled out of the store, gripping the neck of a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. The hum of the black car died with the twist of keys, which Dean shoved into his leather jacket pocket.

"Now, on the plus side, you look damn near 35," Dean sized up the store through the windshield. "So the likelihood of them carding you is pretty slim. You don't have any ID on you, do you?"

Dean eyeballed Castiel, who squinted and shook his head. "Of course not."

"Ah, it'll be fine. There's nothing weird about two grown men buying a crapton of booze." Dean exited the car. Castiel followed.

"Is your sole intention of this evening to," Castiel paused, searching for the right words. "…consume copious amounts of alcohol?"

Dean stopped near the front of his car. A small sigh escaped him and he turned, looking Castiel in the face. He smiled with his mouth, but his eyes cast that same shadow across the green of his irises.

"I want to forget, Cas. And when I'm hell bent on getting something done, you better believe I do it. So let's have some fun, or be miserable—either way, let's just do it intoxicated, alright?"

Castiel gave him a long look, then a small nod.

"And you can keep your snarky, judgmental looks to yourself."

"It is not my place to judge."

"Damn straight."

* * *

It was a dingy little place, but it had what he needed. Dean scanned the shelves, eyes landing on a familiar bottle. He B-lined to it.

"Ah, good ol' Johnny Labinkski," he said as he held it, then faced the label towards Castiel, "Kentucky bourbon whiskey."

Castiel furrowed his brow, beholding the rows and rows of bottles. His eyes wandered over them, and he had a vague curiosity of how much it _would_ take for him to become impaired. He turned his attention toward the unfamiliar bottle in Dean's hand, then met his eye.

"What's your poison?" Dean asked.

Castiel turned back to the shelves, squinting with the discomfort of being out of his element in every way, saying, "Alcohol does not affect me as it does your human body."

"Of course not, Superman!" Dean chortled, casting a glance at the store clerk to see if he heard the remark. The cashier turned a page of his newspaper with his free hand, the other propping his chin with an obvious posture of boredom. Dean lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, "No shit, Cas. I just figured if there was something you liked better than others…"

"I know next to nothing of the details regarding this particular…intoxicant. Other than the desire of its continual supply motivated your species' ancestors to evolve the concept of farming."

"I'll bet it did." Dean clapped a hand on Castiel's back, "Well, we've cruised this far on the whiskey train, might as well keep it kosher."

He waved his hand across a shelf with an indecisiveness, then dropped down a row with an "aha!" Dean grabbed a bottle by the neck, handing it to the man in the trench-coat. Then another. Then another. He scanned the shelves, resting his sight on another bottle, and added it to Castiel's ever-filling arms.

"Aaaand, just for good measure," he said, reaching higher this time to a section labeled 'Scotch', "because everyone deserves a treat."

Dean smiled as he grabbed a bottle labeled Cromdale 24 year. He started to hand it to Castiel, then, noting the four already precariously balanced in his arms, carried it with the bourbon in his other hand towards the register.

"Did you find everything alright," The cashier said without inflection, eyes still half-hooded down at the paper below. Dean placed his two bottles on the counter, then unloaded his companion's arms. The clerk glanced up at the two of them when the fifth bottle hit the counter, and raised his brows at the sixth. "You gents throwing a party?"

Dean's "yes" was eclipsed by Castiel's "no." The true answer the more obvious by the irritated look from one man to the other.

"Uh-huh…" The clerk set to scanning the items, placing them one by one in a bag.

"Just, uh...stocking up for the weekend." Dean flashed a grin as he handed over "his" credit card. It faded to a self-conscious smile with no reply, and he busied himself with roaming his eyes around the store.

"Here you go," the cashier said, returning the plastic card and sliding the brown bags of liquor towards the guys. He shifted a look between the two. His eyes lazily dropped back to the paper with a flat, "Have a good night."

Dean took a bag, careful to hold the bottom so it didn't burst through. Castiel watched him, and followed his lead, taking the other bag. The clerk peeked at the door as the opening-bell rang, then shook his head slightly and resumed his indifferent viewing of his newspaper.

* * *

"Judgmental bastard," Dean muttered, propping the bag on a knee while he fumbled for his keys.

"How much of this is intended for me?" Castiel looked down into the bag in his arms, calculating.

"As much as it takes, Cas." Dean placed the paper bag in the backseat, then settled behind the wheel. "And let's hope this is enough. You're not a cheap date."

Castiel climbed in after him, resting his own bag of bottles on his lap. "Is this a date?"

"Definitely not," Dean replied, a little too quickly. He started the car. "I mean, does it strike you that way? Do you even know what a date _is_?"

"It is an agreed-upon time of meeting someone for companionship purposes including the optional addition of food or drink with the intent of romantic development," Castiel rolled off. He looked at Dean, who was focused on turning out of the liquor store parking lot.

"It is considered a precursor to the human mating ritual," Castiel finished.

The car lurched forward and then halted abruptly with the sound of a horn as a truck swerved to miss the front of the Impala sticking out past the curb. Dean grunted in frustration.

"You have a way of making everything sound so…" Dean pursed his lips, searching for the word.

"Is my understanding inaccurate?"

Dean sighed reluctantly. "Not entirely, but…" He glanced to Castiel, who was staring at him with a bizarre intensity. "The whole 'romance' thing isn't exactly what I'm after, y'know? Just the…"

"Mating part…" Castiel finished under his breath, with realization. A burst of air escaped through Dean's wry smile, a sort-of laugh.

"Well, we failed to pick up any chicks, so that makes that game kind of null, doesn't it?"

Castiel adjusted the liquor on his lap, the rustling bag filling the silence. Finally, he attempted softly, "I was not a very good 'wing man.'"

Dean snorted a laugh. "Yeah, well, it's not all your fault. Come back from the can, and she's done a 180 on you."

Castiel recalled the looks shared between the bartender and Dean, the heat, the teasing play. Somehow, he had interrupted it when he was supposed to help. How? He just had a sense that he had failed, but wasn't particularly upset at the outcome. Relieved, almost…

"I am sorry to say your methods of…" Castiel treaded lightly, "..showing affection, the whole ritual, it confounds me. Romance is—"

"Cas, dammit, no one's talking about romance. Just some good, easy sex. Hot-blooded, natural, sex." Dean practically spat. Castiel submitted to silence for a moment, venturing cautiously with his next words.

"I suppose females are required if… if reproduction is the objective."

Dean sighed, heavy. "No, reproduction isn't the objective. Just a good time. Are you capable of having a good time?"

"You know full well I am."

The car screeched to an abrupt halt. A line of exhaust smoke trailed from the tailpipe in the middle of the abandoned road.

Both men stayed silent a moment in the tension that trapped them into motionlessness. Castiel regretted his words.

"I told you." Dean began, his voice a low growl between clenched teeth. "We don't. talk. about that."

"Dean, I—"

"Ever."

His green eyes turned sharp on the angel, piercing into the deep pools of blue. Castiel clenched his teeth, and was gone.

Dean kept his glare cast to the empty space well after the angel had disappeared. He swallowed, shaking his head slightly to himself, and pressed on the gas.

"Asshole," he muttered under his breath, accelerating around a turn. The glass clinked together in the backseat, rustling the paper bag as they fell together with the sharp momentum of the black car.


	5. Chapter 5 - The Room

The black Impala slowed to a stop, the last sounds of the engine's purr giving in to the silence that settled around the seedy motel like a fog. Dean turned to the backseat, pulling the brown paper bag toward himself and inspecting the contents—three bottles of liquor. He grabbed one without regard to the label, climbing from the car with it clutched in his fist.

The pea-green door stood unremarkable in a line of identical pea-green doors, bearing a well-rusted '34' that appeared all the more dull in the shadow of the man that approached it. Dean pulled a motel room key from his pocket, hesitating in the fluorescent light. He cast a look over his shoulder toward the parking lot—only empty cars occupied the expanse of black asphalt stretched behind him. He breathed out his nose, a sigh almost imperceptible to anyone who would have been there to see it. Dean opened the door.

The brows that had been knitted together in concentration suddenly lifted at the sound of Dean's entrance, the computer casting a blue glow on Sam's face.

"Oh, hey."

"Hey," Dean replied, heading to the bathroom counter that doubled as a kitchenette.

"I didn't expect you back this soon. I thought you were going out?"

"Yeah," Dean set the bottle of bourbon on the counter, going to work a plastic cup free from its thin wrapping. "Not quite my scene tonight."

"Struck out, huh?"

"Shut up."

The lid of the whiskey bottle gave a _crack_ as it twisted open. Dean tipped the bottle Sam's direction. "You want?"

"Nah, thanks," Sam straightened his back, stretching his arms. "I was just about to go out."

"What, another job already?" Dean paused mid-tilt of the bottle, suddenly alert.

"Oh, nah. Just hungry. A sandwich, or something." The blue light faded from Sam's features as he slid the top closed on his computer. "Want anything?"

"Yeah, sure." Dean tossed back the rest of his bourbon, setting the empty plastic cup on the counter and reaching in his pocket for the keys. "Pie."

Sam opened his mouth, but Dean interrupted him before he could speak, "Not cake."

"Right."

The keys jingled as they left his pocket, and he dangled them next to his face which leaned toward Sam with earnest fervor. He said slowly, emphatically:

" _Pie."_

"…Right." Sam raised his brows, "Apple?"

"Cherry."

Sam gave a nod, lips pressed together to acknowledge the serious nature of this task. Dean winked, tossing the keys to his brother, who caught them easily. He wasted no time returning to the bottle.

"Alright," Sam grabbed his beige jacket from the back of the chair, swinging it around his shoulders. "I'll be back soon. See you."

"See ya."

The glug of the liquid spilling into the plastic cup began before the dull thud of the pea-green door announced Sam's exit. Dean grabbed a white remote from the side table near the bed he had claimed for the last three days as his. The bedsheets were a gaudy multi-colored flower pattern that seemed odd juxtaposed to the large fake deer-head mounted on the wall above it. The lamp emanating light beside it featured an array of howling wolves arranged around the entire shade. At least the walls were plain cream color. Some of the more bright-and-bold patterned wallpapers gave Dean a headache after a few days of inhabiting the room.

He made his way to the seat Sam had occupied: an armchair with green-fabric upholstery and thick cushioned arms. With his foot, he turned it away from the small dining table to face the television. The thick, out-dated TV clicked on with a pop. Dean paused before sitting, casting a glance to the kitchenette.

He returned a moment later, setting the still near-full bottle of bourbon on the table next to him. Dean plopped into the green chair, alternating between sips of his whiskey and taps of the remote. The images flickered by—a dramatic soap-opera reveal, a colorful gameshow involving a giant spinning wheel, a bunch of men on a fishing boat, a shampoo commercial, then—Dean's finger halted its rhythmic tapping, poised just above the button to change the channel. The man on screen had the woman by the hair, though by her exuberant expression and …jubilant exclamations, she was by no means distressed by her situation. Dean became suddenly aware of the moans and the sound of measured skin-on-skin contact filling the room, and quickly mashed the button. The screen flashed and the image was gone, though none of the new scenes rolling by registered in Dean's vision. He found himself at the beginning of the available channels after 20 clicks—less than most places, but still more than some.

He sighed, halting when _Big Fishin' 2: Carp Wranglers_ appeared once again in the line-up. Dean bit the side of his lip, settling back in the chair. His eyelids hooded half-way in mild interest as four men wrestled with an array of ropes pulled taut over the side of the ship's railing. He sipped from his cup, popping the plastic sides in and out slightly in boredom. He glanced at the door. Then at the clock. Then at his now-empty cup. Then at the remote. Then at the door again.

 _Click._

 _Click._

The sounds of pleasure diminished as the volume dialed rapidly down to twenty percent. Dean pressed his lips together, glancing at the clock once more before sliding further into a lounging position in the green armchair. He had at least thirty minutes—probably more. His eyes fixated on the screen, the movement of bodies colliding, the faint sound of their gratification. He bit his lip. His body responded to the visual stimulation. Dean adjusted slightly as his jeans tightened and without his noticing, his wrist grazed over the fabric covering the culprit. He breathed in long and deep as the sensation registered, and he rolled his forearm over himself in long strokes, rolling his wrist to add pressure from the heel of his hand.

Slowly, his head tilted back to rest on the chair's cushion behind him. His movement was rhythmic, increasing steadily in speed and vigor. He pressed the palm of his hand flat against his jeans, slowing a moment and breathing deeply. The hand ventured up his stomach, bringing the fabric of his shirt peeking above his belt-line. With one hand, he undid the buckle, pulling the button of his jeans and drawing the zipper down as well. Dean's fingertips dipped below the fabric, grazing across his stomach and feeling the tufts of hair at the base as they descended.

A small murmur of a moan escaped him as he drew his thumb over the soft tip of himself, his other hand still holding the empty plastic cup loosely off the edge of the armrest. His eyelids lowered as he relaxed into the sensation, making a ring with his finger and thumb around his shaft, drawing it up and down slowly. The movement of the screen blurred to darkness as his eyes closed the rest of the way, the rhythmic strokes moving in time with each breath he drew. His mind took over the scene, and he thought briefly of the cute blonde bartender, biting her lip and letting her hair fall in his face. He imagined the warmth of her skin against his, the brush of lips. He let out a light groan, pumping his hand faster, envisioning the soft ass beneath his palm.

"Yeah," he breathed out, almost feeling the hot breath on his neck. His momentum increased, and the sounds of the TV faded behind his own fantasy. He imagined the pressure of hands against his chest, the scent of skin and passion. He began working himself at a feverish pace, brow furrowed and lips pursed in concentration as he lost himself in the pleasure. He moaned, imagining the legs straddling his hips, of the strong jaw nuzzling against his cheek, the gentle prickle of stubble against his neck, the blue eyes staring into his own.

"C—a…"

His eyes flew open and all motion stopped within an instant. Dean jerked his hand out from beneath his pants, bolting upright in the chair. He stared towards the door, then turned his head sharply about the room. He told himself he thought he heard a rustling. That's why he stopped.

Dean's breathing was heavy, and he took a moment to consciously slow it. His cheeks felt flushed and he had an intense sense of embarrassment. He shoved the thought down, ridding himself of it with a shake of his head. He looked at the clock. _Dammit._ Risky idea, anyway.

He glanced at his tight grip around the plastic cup, which nearly buckled under the pressure. He grumbled, crushing it with a clench of his fist, and tossed it toward the trashcan next to the TV. Awareness of the noises came rushing rapidly over him, and with a sudden movement he grabbed the remote, mashing roughly to plunge the screen into darkness. He sat glaring at the empty face of it, realizing he saw his own surly expression reflecting back at him on the black. Dean rose from his chair with a huff and grabbed the bourbon by the neck. He met the mouth of the bottle to his own, swallowing long.

 _What a night._

He made his way to the bathroom door, clutching his still-undone jeans with one hand and bringing his only companion with him in the other.


	6. Chapter 6 - The Match

The patter of falling water followed the squeaky turn of a rusty knob. Dean's shirt crumpled to the tile floor, and jeans came behind. As he tucked thumbs beneath the waistband of his boxers, he paused, looking out of the open door to the empty room. His brow furrowed. With his foot, the door swung and nudged closed with a resolute thud. He finished disrobing before stepping into the shower, droplets sprinkling his feet as he pulled the sheer, white curtain closed behind him.

Dean stood motionless with his head beneath the spray, chin tucked and eyes closed to let the water pour over his scalp and fall in waves over his face. He breathed deep, sputtering water in flecks as he blew out of his pressed lips. The hot water baring down on him felt good after a night in the winter air—though the job had brought them to Nevada where the cold was much more mild even in February.

He opened his eyes, peering down.

"Dammit."

 _Still there._

He frowned and used the back of his hand like a swatter, whacking across his erection with gentle intensity, but full disdain. It mocked him with a wiggle in return.

"Go away," he growled at it. Defiantly, it remained. He sighed, exasperated, and reached out of the curtain blindly. The bottle waiting patiently on the back of the toilet met his hand as he knocked into it, and took off falling. Miraculously, Dean's grip found the neck before it plummeted into the bowl.

"Shower whiskey," he said to himself with some satisfaction, pulling it into the stream.

 _Glug, glug._

"And you," he looked down, addressing his persistent protrusion, "…can just quit."

 _Glug._

"It isn't happening tonight, buddy."

 _Glug. Cough._

Dean replaced the bar of soap on the shelf with the bourbon, clearing his throat of the last drink that went down a little too harshly. He lathered himself with determination, ignoring the fact that he had already showered after his sickly, squishy encounter with the shapeshifter. A shudder wracked him as he recalled the texture of skin and goo they leave behind when they change form. The soap's journey across his arms and chest intensified. With a grimace, he noticed he got his wish—it had gone away.

The sudsy bar slipped from his grip, crashing into the side of the shower on its way down. Dean growled and stared at it as it rested in the corner of the tub, then nudged it with his foot irritably. The residue of suds snuck beneath his other foot and stole it away from him, and with a muffled yelp he grabbed the shower curtain to steady himself. A couple of the rings tore away from the metal rod with the force of his weight, but it was enough to keep him mostly upright. He cursed, planting his feet firmly on the shower's floor. He looked accusingly at the bottle on the shelf, the glass fuzzy with the steam from the water. He did a mental count of the amount of booze ingested at the first bar, then the second, then he lost count and abandoned it with a shrug. Enough to get the job done and a thick buzz going, in any case.

He flipped the faucet handle toward the blue side, and grunted under his breath as the water turned to ice on his skin. He stood rigid for a few moments in the stream, jaw clenched, before working the knob all the way to the right to stop the flow.

Dean groped at a towel hanging outside the curtain, throwing it around himself. He suddenly paused as his foot hit the cool tile, staring at the closed bathroom door, alert. He thought he heard something, or rather, _felt_ something on the other side.

"Sammy?" Dean called—waited. No response. He slipped silently from the shower, quickly stepping into his pants with water still clinging to his body. He didn't take his eyes off the door. Patting each pocket in turn revealed he had no weapons on him—a rare mistake. He cursed in his head as he recalled the location of his jacket that housed the demon blade—tossed carelessly over the back of a chair. He glanced back accusingly to the faulty cause, then brightened at the bottle.

Gripped upside-down as he would a small bat, Dean held the now over half-empty bottle of whiskey by the neck, poised threateningly above his shoulder. With his other hand, he turned the doorknob slowly, then jerked open the door to reveal a figure standing there.

His fist cocked back, liquid swishing violently at the motion. The bottle froze mid-air.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean's posture loosened after a moment from its attack stance and he lowered his hand.

"Oh. It's just you."

Castiel smiled easily, leaning against the kitchenette. "So it is."

Dean glanced down at the paper bag Castiel was gripping in the crook his arm, pressed against his body. It was same he had held before from the liquor store—before he vanished from the car. Castiel followed his gaze, and blinked at the bag as if he has suddenly become aware of it.

"Oh, there's still some left," he said as if in reply to a question, reaching into the bag. It rustled as he pulled forth an empty bottle. He blinked at it. "Well, not in that one."

The bottle dropped carelessly to the floor. Dean jumped slightly at the thud of glass on carpet, then squinted uncertainly at Castiel. His manner was…different.

"Here we go," Castiel said as he plucked a second bottle from the paper. A small amount of brown liquid sloshed in the bottom.

"Oh, wait," he said, seeing how little was left. Without hesitating, Castiel twisted the top off and tipped the bottle back, draining it. Dean's mouth opened slightly. Castiel smiled. He appraised the empty bottle, as if surprised by its sudden emptiness.

"Huh."

Castiel then set it aside and ventured back into the bag, letting the paper fall to his feet to reveal the third bottle—still full. He gripped it by the neck, waving it back and forth slowly.

"This one," he nodded with certainty. "This one is left."

Dean nodded dumbly in response, glancing between the empty bottle on the floor and the one on the counter. He looked Castiel up and down: his lax posture against the counter, a slight sway in his lean, a subtle glaze over his usually stark clear, blue eyes.

"Are you drunk?" The question was simple, curious, and slightly amused. Castiel met his eyes, serious.

"No…" He dragged the word slightly. He frowned, looking at the floor. "Wait."

He paused. Dean quirked a brow. Castiel looked up at him, grinning.

"Yes."

The smile that crept across Dean's lips faltered to a laugh that after a few moments infected Castiel, who joined in. Whether it was the alcohol or the stress of the day finally relinquishing it's tense hold, they laughed hard. Wiping a tear from his eye, Dean lifted his own bottle, and clinked it to the one Castiel held. His chuckle fell quiet as he tilted it back. Remnants of a grin laid claim to his mouth as he looked expectantly at the angel, who remained motionless, staring pensively at the space between Dean's shoulders. Dean looked down, and both men seemed to become conscious of his lack of shirt in unison. Dean cleared his throat and turned at the same time Castiel hurriedly—albeit a bit sluggishly—tore the cap from the bottle and mimicked Dean's motion to complete the 'cheers.' After he swallowed, a little bourbon seeped out of the side of his mouth.

Dean retrieved his white undershirt from the bathroom floor and pulled it over his head. He eyed his underwear lying there that he had decided to forego when he sensed an intruder…but now was probably an awkward time to reclaim it. He turned to face Castiel, glancing between the bottle and bag on the floor, and the tipsy angel. Dean caught sight of the liquid dribbling down his chin, and snickered.

"Dude."

Castiel blinked and drew the sleeve of his trench coat across his face as Dean picked what Castiel had dropped off the floor.

"What were you, raised in a barn?"

Castiel squinted at him. "I was reared in Heaven."

"I—" Dean sighed. "Yeah."

"I am an _angel_ ," Castiel said with conviction and a slight slur, leaning against the counter.

Dean crumpled the bag and tossed it along with the empty bottles into a garbage can. "You're a mess, is what you are."

"I am. A hot mess."

Dean blinked, straightening. "A—What?"

"A _hot mess_ ," Castiel made some vague hand gestures. "It's like a regular mess but…if it's hot, it's worse. I guess."

Dean laughed. "Yeah, I know what a hot mess is. I'm just surprised you do."

"The kids are saying it."

"Okay, grandpa, let's sit you down before you hurt yourself."

Dean held out his hand to Castiel, who merely stared at it. He raised his arm as if to take Dean by the hand, to which Dean shifted to the side, clapping him a little too-roughly on the back. Castiel faltered slightly but caught himself, steadied by the slight pressure on his shoulder. Dean cleared his throat, releasing the angel who shuffled to the bed with his bottle of bourbon and sat with a motion of almost-collapse.

"So where did you run off to, anyway?" Dean ran some tap water into a couple of plastic cups.

"Ohio."

" _Ohio?_ "

"There's a place I like… a park. It has…pine trees."

"Dude, it's February. It's got to be freezing there." He handed a cup to Castiel, who took it and sipped.

"It is 34 degrees there at the moment. Just above freezing."

"Guess you had a couple bottles of whiskey to keep you warm, huh?" Dean threw his own water back in one motion. Castiel mirrored him.

"I don't mind the cold. It's bracing and…yes, the alcohol does tend to create a warmth after a while." As if by habit at this point, he twisted the cap off the whiskey. He poured some in his own plastic cup, and then prompted by Dean holding out his own, poured some into it. Dean sat on the edge of the chair's armrest, facing Castiel.

"So what stopped you from going for the third?"

Castiel blinked at the bottle and smiled. When he left Dean alone in the car, the sack of liquor he had been holding had come with him. Though he didn't intend it, clearly by the two empty ones, he had capitalized on the circumstance. He hadn't decided to return until well into the second, and he hadn't consciously admitted to himself why.

"I thought I heard-..."

Castiel stopped, his brows knitted together in thought. Dean froze, hanging on his words. A part of him denied that he had called out a name—or anything resembling a name. The other part…

Castiel met his eye, and seeing them widened in what he could only discern as fear, shook his head. He shrugged.

"It must have been the...alcohol. Messing with my senses." He looked away, nodding resolutely. Dean relaxed slightly. Castiel continued, not looking at him.

"I didn't come right away. I was... " He paused, and in the silence Castiel felt the admittance escaping him without his permission. "Well, I didn't know if you still wanted my company."

"You kiddin'? This is hilarious." Dean said easily, a smile playing on his lips. He raised his cup in a gesture towards Castiel, who brightened slightly. "And now we have an answer to the question: How many drinks does it take to get to the drunk center of an Angel pop?"

"A lot."

"That's right. A lot." Dean slapped his thigh, standing. "Well, Tomas the Tank-Engine, it's a good thing we got extra." He headed to the door.

"Dean."

Dean turned back, hand on the knob of the door. "Yeah?"

"You are coming back, right?"

Dean suppressed a chuckle. "Yeah, Cas, I'm just getting the rest of the liquor out of the c—" He stopped and slapped his forehead with his palm. "Dammit!"

"What is it?" Castiel was beside him in an instant, the motion of his approach throwing him unsteadily into Dean's shoulder. Dean shrugged him off, stepping outside and looking down the street.

"I forgot—Sammy took the car to go get food."

"Ah."

"Well he should be back before long. Plus, we've got—" He turned to see Castiel with the bottle upturned, swallowing. At the attention, Castiel gulped, lowering it. Dean raised his brows. "…half a bottle."

"I have decided I like it."

"Yeah, I can tell." He held out his hand. "Why don't you let me call the shots from now on, huh? I don't want you puking on my bed."

Like a puppy getting scolded, Castiel shyly handed over the bottle, turning and slinking back to his seat on the end of the floral-covered bed. It squeaked under his weight.

Dean took a swig himself from the bottle, pausing in the night air to breathe in the slight cool of the breeze. He cast another look down the road that disappeared into a line of orange streetlights in either direction. They seemed to blur in the distance. Dean shifted his weight back and forth between his feet in a sort of balance assessment.

Yep, definitely feeling good.

As he was about to turn back into the doorway, he froze. The sounds reaching his ears were quiet, but distinctly recognizable. Moans. Greasy bass guitar humming under a corny saxophone tune. The sounds of sex.

"Cas, what are you doing?!" Dean hurried into the room, almost slamming the door shut behind him. Castiel had the white square of a remote gripped loosely in his hand.

"Turning on the television."

"Well turn it off!"

"Last time there was a man talking about flight patterns of forest birds. There were so many colors. It was beautiful." His brows scrunched together. He tilted his head. "This is not the same show."

"Cas, at least change the channel for crying out loud."

Delayed for a moment, Castiel studied the remote, and pressed a button. The moans and saxophone and slapping sounds grew louder. Wrong button. With a grumble, Dean approached the TV set, searching for the switches himself. He ran his hands around the edges, then peered at the back of it with bewilderment. It was a truly old model, with nothing but the two cables running out of its thick plastic hub. No buttons. Cheap room.

He whirled towards Castiel, standing in front of the screen as if he could block what was on it. Castiel grinned at him.

"Oh, were you watching this?"

"Enough, Cas. Just hand me the remote."

"You seem embarrassed."

Dean's face flushed at the accusation, and he began marching towards the bed with clenched fists. Sensing danger, Castiel crawled backwards toward the headboard, still holding the remote. Dean stopped short of the bed, jaw clenching.

"Cas." Dean commanded. Castiel turned his eyes from the screen up to the man before him. He blinked. "Give it to me, or turn it off."

Castiel held his stare, then raised his arm slowly, tilting the remote back and forth in front of himself. A taunt.

Dean's fury exploded and in a flash he was kneeling on the bed, bent over the angel. With a yelp, Castiel scrambled closer to the headboard, hindered by Dean's tight grip on his ankle. A hard jerk yanked Castiel back nearly underneath him, and he held the remote the full length of his arm above his head, keeping it away from Dean. Dean looked up at it.

"You punk," he growled through clenched teeth, though the corners of his lips threatened a grin. Castiel was actually being a jerk. On purpose.

Dean fought to reach the remote, but Castiel kept squirming further away. Dean used the force of his weight to pin him down, straddling him over the thighs. He pressed against Castiel's shoulder with his arm to keep him still, but Castiel managed to writhe further out from under him. The loose fabric of his trench coat made him a slippery fish. Dean grunted with the effort of positioning himself more in control while wrestling his hand up Castiel's arm, grasping at the hand that held the remote just barely out of reach. Castiel grunted and pushed with his free hand against Dean's chest, to which Dean responded by grabbing hold of his wrist and pinning it next to his head against the bed. A pillow fell from the mattress onto the floor from the commotion, and the struggle slowed as Castiel succumbed to his immobilization. Dean had him well restrained, straddling Castiel with knees on either side of his hips, pressing his weight into him to keep him from writhing free. Breathing hard, Dean looked down in triumph just as the tips of his fingers closed around the edge of the remote.

Castiel stared back up at him, becoming still, wide-eyed. Dean balked at his expression, suddenly gaining awareness of much more than the contest and the sounds of porn playing in the background. Castiel dropped his arm to the side, releasing the remote over the side of the bed. A little too slowly, Dean's attention followed it as he hovered there, rigid. Castiel capitalized on his distraction and bucked his hips from underneath, sending Dean's upper body pitching forward. The top of his skull collided with the wood of the headboard, and he crashed back down on top of Castiel with a cry, groping his head with his hand. The buzz of the alcohol swirled around the jar of the impact and sent his head spinning.

Castiel sat up in an instant, grimacing at the sight of Dean bent over on his lap. The sounds emanating from the TV persisted, and with a fling of his wrist in its direction, Castiel silenced them. The screen went black, and a pop and sizzle that followed suggested he did more than simply turn it off. His attention was on the man above him, who pulled his palm from his head and examined it for blood.

"Shit," Dean cursed. His hand was clean, at least.

"Are you alright?" Castiel's breath was short.

"Yeah," Dean gave a small laugh through the grimace. "You got me good."

"I thought you'd—" Castiel started. He cleared his throat and frowned.

Dean raised his thumb to his mouth, sticking out his tongue and flicking his finger across the side of it. A light rouge covered the tip.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath, sticking the thumb back in his mouth to lick it off. Castiel reached towards his face. Dean started, leaning away from him. "Whoa."

"I think I can help."

"After what you did to the TV?" Dean nodded to a light wisp of smoke trailing out the back of it. "I'll take my chances. Just bit my tongue a little, is all."

"I'm sorry." Castiel looked away, his sight landing on the whiskey poised next to them on the nightstand.

"It's fine," Dean smirked as Castiel offered him the bottle. He took a swig and winced as the burn struck the wound on his tongue. When he brought the bottle down, Castiel was smiling at him.

Dean leaned back, becoming aware of their positioning: he was sitting easily on Castiel's lap, straddling him.

The closeness of it all struck him.

Dean turned to move away, but as he started to swing his leg off, Castiel caught him by the thigh and secured his knee back down to the bed. In a fluid motion, Castiel pulled Dean to his side with a strength that stunned him. He switched their positions to where Castiel hovered over Dean, his blue tie falling across the space between them to rest on Dean's chest. Dean was struck motionless with surprise as he lay on his back, staring up with wide eyes.

"What are you doing?" Dean's voice came hushed as a whisper.

"Um…" was all Castiel replied, descending to close the space between his mouth and Dean's.

Dean blinked in astonishment, fixed motionless momentarily in the kiss. Regaining his senses, he quickly shoved Castiel away, holding his shoulders at arms length above himself and staring into his eyes. Castiel saw the green flicker over several emotions—shock, confusion, anger, knowing. His blue only reflected an understanding, and through the haze of alcohol, a vast wanting.

"Dean." The way the name flicked off his tongue was a plea.

"You're drunk." The accusation came like fire, but the stillness in which he held Castiel above him was numb with ice. The two men beheld each other, frozen and searching.

Castiel moved toward him again, pressing against the force of Dean's hands, which faltered in their strength. Dean's eyes flickered to Castiel's approaching lips, and his arms flexed to halt the movement, their faces mere inches apart.

"I don't want this." The whisper came through clenched teeth. Dean met Castiel's eyes, the blue reflecting the intensity in his own, albeit slightly glossy from the alcohol. Castiel's response was a movement of his hips, which ground into Dean's where he straddled him. Dean's eyes bulged at the motion.

"I am privy to sources that say otherwise." Castiel repeated the move, grinding against him. Dean pursed his lips, the sound of fabric rustling against each other seeming to fill the room.

"In fact," a third time he worked himself against Dean. His serious expression betrayed his tease. "I can feel that you do."

Dean scowled and looked away, lips pressed together as he fought with himself. His hands' effort to bar Castiel's chest from closing the gap went slightly lax, though the angel remained poised above him, hovered there. Castiel shifted his weight off one hand, which he brought to Dean's turned-away cheek, and gently pressed against it to face him.

Dean's restraint shattered the moment their eyes met, and it was Castiel's turn to be startled by the grip of Dean's hand on the back of his head, which forced Castiel down to press lips against his own. The surprise lasted only a second as his balance was thrown and he collapsed upon the man, the full length of their bodies colliding. Castiel's hand pressed against the stubbled jaw that worked hungrily against his own mouth, stroking his face and neck. Dean's own hands worked into Castiel's hair, grabbing the dark tufts and pulling him deeper into the kiss.

The black car making it's way down the road was the furthest thing from their minds.


	7. Chapter 7 - The Jump

The sound of fabric moving against fabric. A deep intake of breath and a soft exhale of a moan. The faint clicking of tongues moving against each other, the colliding of lips in motion. The whisper of a name, in turn.

"Dean…"

"Cas…"

The boys were immersed in the sensation of one another, drinking from the pleasure of their contact as if having been starved in the desert. Dean's fingers played in a rhythmic gripping of Castiel's dark hair, and Castiel's hands wandered the length of Dean's sides, up his arms, tracing a taut line of his neck to his chest. Dean's own hands attempted a sweep of the angel's body, but he slowed, pulling his lips away only a centimeter.

"You've got to get rid of this," he murmured heavily, tugging at the thick, beige fabric covering most of Castiel. Castiel hesitated, seeming to have forgotten that clothes were a part of him that could be so easily altered. Dean helped remind him by grasping at the lapels, throwing the trench coat from off his shoulders. Castiel shrugged one arm out at a time, and was back on Dean's mouth and chest and hips before Dean cast the garment over the side of the floral-covered bed with a fling of his arm.

Castiel's lips traveled the stubbled jaw to Dean's ear, where he nibbled and was granted a moan. They traced down his neck, tongue trailing over the side where blood pumped hot and fast through the artery, and Dean responded again vocally. The gentle scrape of Castiel's bristled nuzzling made the tender motion with which he glided his lips across the nape of Dean's neck all the more stirring. It came more naturally to Castiel through the languid haze of the intoxication, and he felt encouraged in his motions by Dean's rewarding hums. In truth, he wasn't sure he would even know what to do in such a situation if Dean hadn't shown him how good it felt, before, when he…

Castiel's lips hit a barrier—the white shirt interrupted the seemingly endless line of skin he had been drawing his mouth over. He took the fabric covering Dean's shoulder between his teeth and gave it a tug.

"Now you've got to—"

The shirt was torn from Dean's torso before Castiel finished his request, and immediately after Dean's hands set to work on the blue tie encompassing Castiel's neck.

"But we should be even," Dean said, pulling the blue knot into two lines that hung on either side of his head. Their mouths met once again and worked passionately against one another. Castiel stroked the rippled flesh of Dean's bare chest and stomach as Dean's hands hurriedly yet delicately freed each button on Castiel's shirt in turn. Castiel sat up, straddling Dean's hips as the man below relieved the man above of his garment. Dean's hands ventured down his chest to the belt of Castiel's slacks, but were blocked by the angel's hands closing in on his. Castiel raised the man's hands to his lips and kissed the knuckles marred rough by countless altercations. Dean watched him, his breath heavy with desire and anticipation suddenly slowed by this gentle affection.

Castiel leaned over, meeting Dean's lips that were open slightly in a question that didn't get a chance to be asked. Castiel brought his lips to his ear and whispered.

" _I_ want to, this time."

Dean's brow furrowed and then his face flushed with realization. As Castiel moved his head down Dean's neck, kissing his collarbone and pausing to drag the tip of his tongue across his nipple, Dean's mouth opened in protest of his suggestion, but sound never escaped. Castiel continued, tasting the flesh as it glided across his lips, and undid the button of Dean's jeans with a single flick of his thumb and forefinger. He sighed against the skin of Dean's abdomen, looking down. Dean pursed his lips as the air hit him. Castiel drew the zipper down, his heart skipping a beat as he realized this was the only layer between himself and…Dean.

He hesitated there, breathing deep the scent of the man. Dean's head was lifted, watching him with an expression verging on trepidation. Finally, he murmured softly,

"You don't have to…"

Castiel's eyes snapped up to meet Dean's. A warm smile came across Castiel's lips. Dean licked his own.

"I know that. I want to."

And with that, Castiel turned his attention downward, where a pull at the edge of Dean's jeans revealed his hard member that seemed to beg for freedom. Dean pursed his lips, caught fast between resisting and wanting. Castiel timidly placed his hand over the bare skin of it, and Dean tilted his head back and whimpered, resistance dissolving without dispute beneath the waves of pleasure emanating even from the angel's light touch. At that, Castiel applied more pressure, slowly drawing the flat of his hand over it. Dean's eyes closed and his mouth opened, through which a light moan escaped and settled around Castiel like a glowing flame of encouragement.

Castiel bit his lip, gripping the sides of Dean's jeans and giving a light tug. Dean lifted his hips as Castiel worked the pants over his ass, pulling them down to stretch across his thighs. His erection sprung forth, skin taut and veins pulsing along the length of it as it protruded from between his legs.

"Cas…" Dean breathed as he felt a firm hand close around him. Castiel gave him a few strokes, and lifted the head that was already glistening with the drip of anticipation. Castiel licked his lips and then descended on it, closing around the tip with his mouth. It was lightly salty on his tongue, and pulsed beneath his grip. Dean moaned and closed his eyes, feeling his hips buck toward the sensation against his will. Castiel allowed more of it into his mouth, remembering the swirling sensation he had felt last time—when he was on the other end. He rolled his tongue over the tip and took more, wrapping his lips tight around Dean's cock. Dean whimpered helplessly and gripped the comforter of the bed in one fist, and placed his other hand delicately at the back of Castiel's head as the angel moved his lips and hand up and down his shaft in rhythmic motion. Dean ran his fingers through the thick, dark hair, his own face thrown back, breathing deep with his lips parted in ecstasy. Though the pressure on his head was firm but light, Castiel responded to the touch by going deeper, the edge of Dean dipping down his throat as his head bobbed lightly. Dean cried out as Castiel sucked him off, calling his name, arching his back and biting his lip as he fought the urge to thrust hard.

"Castiel…" Dean moaned, the hoarse pleasure of his full name almost a growl in his throat. Castiel tightened his lips, applying more pressure to each pull of his mouth over Dean's thick erection, his tongue swirling furiously at the sensitive tip each time he reached it. Dean moaned deeply, his thighs tense, gripping at the tufts of hair at the back of Castiel's head. They tossed about the waves of bliss on the motel bed, surrendering, gasping, the gratification of it all rolling over them like surges of heat.

Castiel finally relented in the flow of his movement, slowing to draw his lips up the shaft in one long motion. He sucked at the head a moment, and flicked his tongue across the tip, earning a gasp from Dean.

"Where did you learn that…" he muttered, his stiff posture falling limp at the reprieve. Castiel smiled, though Dean didn't see it with his closed eyes.

"From you."

Dean lifted his head, meeting the angel's gaze. His already flushed face deepened in redness, as it always did when Castiel brought up…the last time.

"I gotta say, you sure are a quick learner," Dean muttered and returned his smile. He bit his lip. His cock was still poised, harder than ever, next to Castiel's upturned lips.

"Well I—"

They both froze as the sound of jingling keys rattled against the door.

"Shit!" Dean cursed and sat up abruptly.

Castiel's head spun toward the door as Dean gripped the sides of his jeans in an attempt to pull them up. Dean glanced at the bathroom door. Castiel followed his eyes, and then met his gaze and gave a quick shake of his head.

 _No time._

The front door opened, and Castiel gripped the pile of their clothes at his side with one hand, and Dean's forehead with the other.

Sam nudged in through the door, his back pressed against it with his hands full of two paper bags and a soda. He stopped in the doorway once he had turned in.

"Dean?" he called to the empty room. He scrunched his eyebrows at the open bathroom door. "I've got your—er…pie."

No response.

He shrugged the bags onto the small square table, picking one open with one hand and digging for a fry while his other retrieved his cell from his back pocket. He dialed and held it to his ear, munching on salty crunchy goodness.

The heavy guitar riffs of Dean's ringtone emanated from the bedside table as the phone lit up beside a mostly empty bottle of bourbon. Sam's forehead drew a crease as he cautiously lowered his phone, ending the call with his finger and surveying the room. One bed appeared disheveled, and he detected a slight burning smell, which he noted was coming from the TV as he passed it. He stepped lightly, silently, with his hand inching to the gun tucked at his back as he made his way across the room.

Sam approached the bathroom doorway, quickly peeking around it to find it empty—even the drawn curtain could hide no figures behind it.

"Huh."

His brow furrowed deeper and turned back into the room, stopping as his eyes landed on an object resting on the floor. His shoulders relaxed their tense state, and a corner of his lip quirked as he tucked the gun back in its hiding spot beneath his belt.

Sam made his way back to the table, leisurely taking a seat and going to work on the sandwich and fries. He pulled a red cherry pie from the other bag, sighed at it, and tossed it to the other side of the table.

Crumpled on the floor next to the bed laid the beige mess of Castiel's trenchcoat.


	8. Chapter 8 - The Pines

The black sackcloth of space ripped a hole across time that allowed two flecks of life to spin through like worms on a hook through water. With a thud that marked no significance to the vast expanse of the universal order, the void spat them on the other side after having distorted and stretched their molecular design in extremity to travel the tesseract.

Dean plummeted onto a soft but scratchy surface, the heat quickly dissipating its hold on his every cell even before Castiel came crashing on top of him through the threads of dimensional space with a grunt. Dean cried out in surprise, after which Castiel propped himself up on his arms and looked at him. They blinked at one another, both naked above the waist—Castiel in concern, Dean in shock.

"Dammit, Cas!" Dean shoved Castiel's shoulder away from himself as he leaned back on his elbows, yanking his jeans up to cover his bare ass. "What the hell was that?!"

Castiel sat back on his haunches, blinking. The empty void his weight left when he pulled away tempted Dean to reach out and reclaim him, but instead he pulled his arms across his exposed body as if to cover himself.

"I moved us," Castiel said, though his voice sounded unsettled, a little shaky. A line formed at his forehead and he grimaced, clutching his stomach. "So we wouldn't be…"

Dean watched him, concern pulling his eyes into slits. They suddenly widened, and Dean threw himself to the side, propping his body up with his hands, and vomited violently.

"Are you alright?" Castiel ventured after several moments, when the spasms wracking Dean's body finally subsided. Dean grunted a kind of affirmation, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and reaching into his back pocket. He plucked a flask from it and twisted the top, taking some of the contents into his mouth and swishing it around. He spat it on the ground.

"Yeah, I'm…" He paused, drawing an unsteady breath. "No, man. Actually, I feel like shit."

He shivered, suddenly aware of the freezing night air hitting his bare skin. Castiel glanced to the wad of clothes clutched beneath his right hand, and pulled the white t-shirt from them, handing it to Dean. He snatched it and pulled it over his torso, attempting stability as he got to his feet. It wasn't much to guard his skin against the cold, but he felt a little less exposed in the open air.

"My…ability to transfer us to an alternate location is…" Castiel frowned, absently climbing into his own shirt as he searched for the correct words. He slurred them a bit. "…impaired slightly, with the alcohol. It seems to affect my angelic powers so, the transference was not as—"

"Slightly, huh?" Dean wrapped his arms around himself and rubbed to create friction. "I feel like my guts got turned inside out, for crying out loud."

Dean looked down at Castiel on the ground, who's shaky hands worked unsteadily at the buttons of his shirt.

"My apologies," was all Castiel muttered. Dean's expression softened as he bent to a knee before Castiel, pulling his hands away and finishing the buttons on his shirt for him. He could feel Castiel's deep exhale brush against his face. Crouched there on one knee, he finished the last button near Castiel's chest and his green eyes unwittingly flicked up to the angel's lips. Castiel's tongue darted out to wet them, only inches away from Dean's. Dean suddenly made to stand, faltering in the motion, but he caught himself with a hand on a bed of pine needles before he fell over. He cleared his throat, aware of a faint warmth heating his cheeks.

"So," Dean grabbed the blue tie off the ground and slung it around Castiel's neck, taking a look around as he stood. They were in complete darkness save for the stars and moonlight filtering through the night sky, and the faint reaches of a lamp somewhere around the expanse of trees surrounding them. Pine trees. They made a thick wall completely enclosing them, there were so many. "Where are we?"

Castiel got unsteadily to his feet with the help of Dean grabbing hold of him and lifting.

"Ohio."

"Ohio?!" Dean shivered again. Castiel reluctantly released Dean's steady arms when he pulled away, and nodded.

"Why the hell—?!"

"It was..the first place I thought of," Castiel met Dean's incredulous eyes, unblinking. "I was not exactly in position of clear thinking."

Despite the freezing air pricking every inch of his body, Dean felt the warmth of a blush creep faintly across his face once again. And despite the circumstances, he felt his body respond to the still-fresh memory. Castiel looked him up and down slowly as if—what? Reading his mind, or appraising his condition—his expression was unreadable. Dean stumbled over his words in an effort to say something quickly.

"Well, I—er, we can," He turned away slightly, feeling exposed. "Can you take us back or what?"

Castiel shook his head slowly.

"Not at this time." He looked Dean's body up and down again, which made him oddly self-conscious. Dean crossed his arms over himself tighter, as if this would hide him from the angel's penetrating gaze, or the cold.

"A second attempt at travel could interminably alter the molecular foundation of your human body and…my vessel. It could be much worse than the first time."

"So basically, you're too drunk to drive."

Castiel's eyes turned away. He looked ashamed.

"I did not know how difficult it would be under such circumstances," he muttered through almost-closed lips. "I will not risk it again."

Dean shivered again, and Castiel noticed the frigid air seemingly for the first time. He blew out a puff of fog and watched it dissipate in the night air. His half-hooded eyes drifted to Dean's arms which were prickled with goosebumps, and Dean could see a struggle playing out across his brows that furrowed together. Castiel's fist clenched and he stayed to himself.

"We should get inside." Only Castiel's lips moved.

"Yeah, it's cold as balls out here."

The curious glance his way prompted Dean to continue before Castiel felt inclined to argue the precise temperature of men's testicles.

"Let's find somewhere to wait for you to, uh…sober up, I guess," Dean looked across the pines. "What's close?"

Castiel turned, staring at the row of pine trees in turn, brow creased in thought. As he did so, Dean tipped back the flask, swallowing this time. He thought about offering it to Castiel, but hesitated as he looked at the angel. Castiel's thin white shirt wasn't much to cover him either, and Dean could see the pale skin through the threads that stretched over his muscular shoulders. Dean took another quick drink and stuffed the flask back in his jeans pocket while Castiel's back was still to him.

"Not much in the vicinity," Castiel turned full circle, coming to face Dean again. His eyes shone glossy in the moonlight. "It's why I like it here."

"Well I'm about ready for another drink right about now so anything with that and a heater will do." He patted his pants and located his wallet. A small mercy, at least. He cursed mentally as he realized his phone was nowhere on his person.

Castiel nodded his head in a direction. "That way. It's a little far but…it's about all there is."

"Whatever it is, it'll work." Dean took a step, faltered to the side, then set steady on the path with Castiel at his heels. They disappeared into a cluster of pines that swallowed them into the darkness, with just a stumble here and there.


	9. Chapter 9 - The Mixup

"But how do you know what is being said is genuine or...not?"

"Context, Cas. Like when it's obviously not the case," Dean gestured vaguely, trying to explain. "It's…kind of a joke."

The two figures marched in semi-steady, barely-weaving strides down the abandoned street.

"Like the pine needles."

"Yes. Exactly. Like the pine needles."

They leaned against one another to steady the occasional stumble, Castiel's arm draped around Dean's shoulders, who in turn wrapped his arm around the other man's waist to keep him stable. It was unclear who was supporting whom.

"This concept eludes me," Castiel muttered.

"Clearly," Dean replied dryly, though despite his jaw clenching against the cold, an edge of amusement creeped in his voice.

"So you do not enjoy the sensation?"

"Right. I do not enjoy the sensation of pine needles in my ass."

Castiel's brow furrowed in thought and Dean suppressed a smirk. Yet another passing sarcastic comment turned lessons-in-human-interaction for the bewildered angel. No doubt the stupor of drunkenness was feeding into his confusion.

"I've only recently begun to consider what humans deem pleasurable."

Dean cast a side-long glance at Castiel, who kept his sauntering gaze ahead.

"Trust me. This one is…unpleasant." Dean shifted in his step, emphasizing his point.

"It's complex." Castiel's brows knitted together, perplexed. Dean wasn't sure if his companion's deep speculation was still on the concept of sarcasm, or the confounding subject of human pleasure. The corner of Dean's lip quirked up, despite his teeth threatening to chatter. Castiel faltered slightly at a notch in the sidewalk, eliciting a tighter grip from Dean's hand at his hip.

"So, how much farther is this place?"

They had emerged from the forest of pines some time ago, and though the occasional car flashed its headlights over them as it passed, the road they now traveled was largely abandoned. The cold had seeped into Dean's bones, and Castiel's footing seemed exceptionally unreliable. This is how they had come to be in such close proximity—the back of Dean's neck resting in the crook of Castiel's arm, and Dean's own hand placed against the angel's side, pressing their bodies together. It was for balance. And warmth. Completely logical.

Still, they teetered a bit as the alcohol in their systems played with their equilibrium.

Castiel squinted at a row of seemingly abandoned brick buildings before them, then nodded ahead to indicate their objective. At least the destination was in sight. They had been walking/stumbling for nearly a mile.

"Alright," Dean brightened at the prospect of closed walls and another drink. The sting of the cold air seemed to sober him slightly—an effect he was more than willing to dispel at the earliest convenience. "I'm freezing my balls off."

"Is that also—?"

"No that's—that's just an exaggeration." Dean quickened his steps. He sighed, muttering under his breath, "You take everything so literally."

"I would offer additional coverage I had to you, but you urged me to remove my most protective layer," Castiel looked at the ground sullenly. He seemed to show emotion more freely through the drift of inebriation, and felt near naked without his trenchcoat.

"I—" Dean cleared his throat and shifted his arm uncomfortably. Though his own intoxication had allowed him the laxity of indulging in whatever had happened back there in the room, he hadn't processed how it happened. How he had allowed… He made a motion in between a shake of his head and a shrug, as if admitting the circumstance would mean something, would make him…

"I didn't know we'd be teleported to freakin' Ohio."

"In fact, you removed it for me."

"Shut up," he snapped, coming to a halt. "We're basically there."

The two peered at the building across the street—the only one with lights flickering dimly through the windows which obviously had been tinted dark. The soft glow of color-changing lights illuminated the outside of the historic-looking brick building in vertical strips along its side, which might as well have been a beacon to the boys who stood shivering in the dark. An elegant script glowed in purple above the awning, labeling it "The Mixup." The large double doors beneath beckoned them, and Castiel took a few steps before being stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

"Hold on there, buddy," Dean said quickly, as if to a child going for dessert before dinner. Castiel turned and flashed him an inquisitive look. "If this really is the only place open in the area, then it's our only shot at not sleeping on the street, so…"

Castiel tilted his head in question. Dean glanced at the building, and then looked Castiel up and down. His tie hung in two loose strands on either side of his neck, and his hair was more of a floppy mess than usual. He blinked at Dean, who became acutely aware of how they must look—a couple of sloppy drunks.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," Dean gripped Castiel's tie, his temples pulsing at the effort to work his numb fingers around the deft foldings of the knot. "That if we walk in looking and acting like a couple of boozers, they might not let us in."

"I see."

"It looks like a pretty swanky joint, so," Dean pulled the tie taut at Castiel's throat. His forehead formed a crease as he worked his fingers across the top of Castiel's head in an attempt to smooth the wild tufts. "Let me do the talking and you just…sit back. Okay?"

"If you advise it."

"Oh, I do." Dean pulled the flask from his pocket and twisted the top. "Now, here's for luck. And…nerves, or whatever."

"But I thought I was supposed to—"

"Yeah, but one swig probably isn't going to make a dent in with those bottles you chugged."

Castiel reached up and took the flask, pausing briefly as their fingers met. Dean released it and attempted a quick once-over of his own appearance—not much to work with, as his only layers were the jeans and white v-neck t-shirt he wore. He ran his fingers through his hair, taking the flask from Castiel once he finished and tipping it back himself.

"Alright, let's do this."

They sauntered across the street, both with their hands shoved deep into their own pockets, feeling a void on the side where they had been connected for seemingly such a short amount of time.

* * *

"Welcome in," chimed a voice that rang with a well-rehearsed cheerfulness, probably for the umpteenth time that night. The host didn't look up from the stand as they entered. He was dressed immaculately in a crisp blue shirt and checkered tie, black hair slicked back in a perfect coif. The boys sighed as the rush of warm air hit their skin.

"Hey there," Dean started, with an attempt at a smile that looked forced as his lips pulled at his numb, frozen cheeks.

"Oh my—where are your jackets?" The man behind the stand lifted his gaze and blinked at them in bafflement. "It's February!"

"We uh, don't live far," Dean forced his teeth not to chatter and tried to look nonchalant. The crooked eyebrow on the host revealed his disbelief.

"You must be crazy if y'all walked," he clicked his fingernails on the edge of the marble tabletop. Dean noticed how long they were—they must have been fake, and—painted silver? "This is all there is for miles."

Dean caught the host watching him study his nails, and quickly smiled. The host shrugged, dropping the subject of their sanity.

"You both over 21 years?" The question felt routine.

Castiel let out a laugh from behind. Dean shot him a sharp look over his shoulder, and the host's eyebrow shot up suspiciously. Dean smirked, rubbing his distinctly stubbled chin.

"Yeah."

The host pursed his lips at the peculiarity of them, and took a moment to look them up and down. Clearly, they were of age, but something was off. He studied them inquisitively for a moment, then shrugged it off.

"Alright, it's ten dollars," his manicured fingertips tapped at a register on the stand. "Twenty, if you're paying for your boyfriend."

Dean's nostrils flared.

"The hell did you say to me?" he growled before he could stop himself.

The man looked up in surprise, shrugging innocently, "Look, honey, I don't care what you do in your spare time—"

"I kick some ass in my spare time." Dean gritted his teeth.

Clearly unthreatened, the host pursed his lips and leaned on the stand, pointing a silver-tipped finger at Dean. "Well you can kick your own sweet little ass out the door with that attitude."

He dismissively waved, staring Dean in the face. A tense moment passed between them.

"My apologies," Castiel suddenly stepped forward, interrupting their standoff and pressing Dean behind him with his arm. The host turned his placid attention on him. Dean opened his mouth but was silenced when Castiel continued.

"My—" Castiel glanced at Dean, "-companion has been…quite distressed recently."

"Uh-huh." The host leaned back in appraisal, but his lips remained warily pressed together.

"Fighting demons."

"Cas—"

"Hmph." He looked Dean up and down impassively. "We've all got 'em."

Dean stayed still, watching Castiel with caution. Castiel's voice was suddenly even, and completely sincere.

"He's usually very charismatic, and…" Castiel blinked. "…kind."

"Mmhmm," the host replied with reticence, though his sharp eyes lessened in their agitation as Castiel spoke. He glanced at Dean again, unimpressed.

"He could really use a drink." Castiel's blue eyes shone with his appeal. He looked emphatically at Dean, who met his eye. "And I can't leave his side."

"Well!" The host tossed after a moment, his obstinate stare softening as he appraised Castiel. He leaned forward and studied his face. "Aren't you just an angel."

Castiel faced him, his expression serious. "Of the Lord, yes."

A burst of laughter erupted from the man behind the stand, and the other two shared an uncertain look. His chuckle subsided and with a shake of his head, he turned to the register.

"Okay, honey," he waved his manicured hand, chuckling as he typed. He eyed Dean, nodding his head toward Castiel. "You're lucky you brought this one with you. _He's_ charming."

The register opened with a _ding!_ , and the host held out his hand expectantly as amusement played on his features. "I'll let you both in for ten."

Dean blinked, realizing their success at Castiel's nudge in his ribs. He hurriedly pulled his wallet out and handed over the cash. Before Dean could retract his hand, the host grabbed it, stamping the inside of his wrist. He smirked, gesturing for Castiel's.

"Go on in and have fun," he smiled pleasantly at Castiel as he stamped his wrist, then waved toward the inner door. Dean turned stiffly, heading toward it with Castiel at his side.

"And hey—"

Dean turned as he was addressed, pausing in the entrance. Castiel continued on.

"Hang on to that one with all you've got." The host pointedly leaned in to him, his eyes earnestly intense. "Or someone else might."

Dean looked at him. Satisfied with his dumbfounded expression, the host turned back to his stand. Dean gave an imperceptible nod of his head, and headed into the corridor.

* * *

The heavy beat of the music wracked his chest the moment he stepped through the door. At the end of the long hallway, he saw Castiel poised in wait, an array of flashing lights mixed with lasers piercing through the thick fog that kept the room beyond from view. Their eyes met across the distance, Castiel's gaze like a hand reaching for him, beckoning him to stand by his side.

Dean jolted into sudden awareness that his feet were unconsciously carrying him forward, closing the gap between them. Castiel smiled warmly, even though Dean shoved his hands into his pockets. They stood at the edge of the fog, the techno music now a loud, pulsing, all-encompassing noise. Shouts and laughter and clinking glasses could be heard through the thump of an 808 beat. Without a word between them, the men stepped into the vapor.

The atmosphere assaulting his senses was jarring, as if he had come from a dark tunnel and stepped into daylight. But it wasn't daylight before him. Dean sluggishly took in the scene as if in a daze, his face contorted into an expression of disorientation. Castiel was also blatantly staring, but his look was one of wonder. Both of their white shirts glowed a bright blue beneath the lights.

A long, stark-white glass-top bar stretched before them with modern stools in a line, the blocks composing the bar alternating through the colors of the rainbow. Lines of dancing green lasers floated through the fog and pierced the walls and floor in intricate, moving designs, but these were not what drew Dean's attention. At various corners of the room, large cages flashed in front of strobe lights, the blinking bursts illuminating the people enclosed within them. The caged individuals were dancing, obviously there by choice. They were male. And they were barely clothed.

Dean's eyes drifted in a stupor around the room. There were plenty of people milling about, laughing, talking, and many of them were shirtless and covered in smears of paint that glowed beneath the blacklights. Farther in through the fog, he could make out the shapes of bodies covered in glowing colors, writhing on an expanse of dance floor. The space was comprised mostly of lightly-clad males, some in a line, many in couples, touching, kissing, and generally enjoying one another.

His shock was broken by a shirtless man crossing in front of him. With a start, Dean realized the man was addressing him and his mouth was hanging open. He snapped it shut.

"Wanna paint, sugar?" The man held up a small bucket and brush that glowed yellow, like the many stripes of green, pink, and blue across his face and bare chest. Dean swatted the man's hand away as it approached and took a step back, shaking his head dumbly. The man seemed unperturbed. "What about you, daddy?"

Dean shot a look toward Castiel, who was grinning as another shorter man snapped a glowing bracelet around his wrist. At Dean's astounded expression, he turned to the man with the body paint.

"Not now." Castiel almost had to shout over the music.

The man winked and flitted away, calling, "Find me later!"

Dean watched the shorter man finish securing glowing blue bracelets around Castiel other wrist, and run off to claim another person to decorate. He gaped at Castiel, grabbing his hand and studying the stamp that glowed beneath the light. Incredulously, he lifted his own wrist and stared in shock.

It was in the distinct shape of a purple penis, the words "The Mixup" drawing a circle around it.

Dean muttered a curse beneath his breath that faded without consequence into the pulsing beat, the glowing lights, and the energetic frenzy of the evidently, indisputably gay club.


	10. Chapter 10 - The Mission

_(( Author's Note: I wanted to take a moment to thank everyone who has read, reviewed, and joined me on this journey so far! It's been a blast and a surprise and it may delight/horrify you (as it does me) to know I don't know where it's going with each passing chapter, but your reviews, favorites, and follows have me smiling for days and really keep me going. So hold on to your shiny pants, We're Goin' In! ))_

* * *

"This is, uh—" Dean raised his voice over the thumping beat of the music. "—not what I expected."

Castiel merely smiled back at his expression of concern, clearly unperturbed with the circumstances. He looked around quickly, evaluating the room, and meeting Dean's wide eyes, yelling back simply, "Everyone is friendly."

"Yeah, they're…" Dean dropped his voice and his gaze as a man in rainbow shorts barely long enough to cover his buttcheeks pranced by. "…downright gay."

"What?" Castiel shouted back over the music.

"We need to find a phone and call Sammy!" Dean attempted to avert his eyes, but skin was everywhere. He looked helplessly back toward the doors they came through. When he turned back, he saw Castiel's lips moving, but was unable to make out the words they formed.

"What?!" Dean yelled as he grabbled Castiel by the collar, pulling him close in frustration to hear.

"…borrow one to use," he heard Castiel finish. His lips practically brushed against Dean's ear, which Dean became hyper-aware of as he glanced up and noticed two guys at the bar unwittingly mirroring their interaction, though the others appeared in a much more intimate conversation—hands on thighs, lips curved up amusement, whispering close.

Dean quickly shoved Castiel away with a little more force than he intended. Castiel's expression shifted to one of uncomprehending, and Dean felt a pang at the bruised reaction written clear across his blue eyes.

"I gotta piss," he yelled over the blaring music, and set off into the next room. Not knowing which direction the bathroom resided didn't stop his steady strides from carrying him hastily away from the angel that stared after him.

* * *

Dean rushed out of the bathroom, wiping his hands dry on his jeans and shaking his head to himself. He could count on one hand the amount of time's he'd ever relieved himself in what he could only describe as a trough.

"Freakin' zoo in here," he muttered to no one in particular, looking around in the flashing colored lights. The thick smoke from the fog machines billowed across the room, obscuring the large space and figures engulfed within it. He scanned the room as he stepped into the haze, shifting around figures moving to the hypnotic rhythm of the techno music. He startled at a bump or a body rubbing against his on more than one occasion, but at each encounter he turned toward the offender who was never more than vaguely aware of his presence. Dean pressed on in the disorienting fog, lights, and all-encompassing pulse of the beat, searching the crowd.

Few people were wearing white long-sleeved dress shirts, so when he caught sight of a man clad in just that, he made a B-line toward him. Dean slowed his steps before he reached the man, blinking. It looked like Castiel from behind—but Dean's eyes were fixated sharply on the man he was speaking to—or rather, the hand that was pressed cozily into the small of Castiel's back.

Dean's mouth set in a hard line and he approached the two, peering into the man's face he was sure was not— _couldn't_ be—the uptight, cautious angel who barely knew how to even carry a smooth conversation.

"Hello, Dean."

It was him, after all.

Dean's mouth opened to form a question that failed to present itself, and he simply looked at Castiel, then at the stranger, at his arm placement around the angel, and back into his face. He struggled to piece together a clever quip—something light, joking—unlike the feeling rising at the back of his neck. But the noise, the flashing lights, the alcohol…

The hand slipped away from around Castiel's back, and the young man it belonged to raised his eyebrows at the newcomer.

"Cas, what…" Dean began, his voice fading into the rhythmic beat. He attempted to soften the sharp intensity in his eyes, noticing his jaw set harder than necessary. The other taller, but thinner man wore a sly smile that crept away at the intrusion of their conversation. Dean met his eye. The young man's gaze flicked between Castiel and Dean, and he pursed his lips in understanding, retreating into the smog with an easy-going shrug.

The moment had lasted the span of a few seconds, but Dean's mind clutched onto it like a bear trap, reddening his face deeper the instant he realized he was flushing at all. Castiel's attention was on him, and he only seemed to notice the other man's departure as he followed Dean's agitated stare into the fog.

"What the hell was that?"

Castiel turned back to Dean, seemingly oblivious to his gruff irritation. His lips barely moved as he spoke and Dean watched them closely, but he clenched his jaw and leaned in with frustration when he couldn't make out what was being said.

"I am trying to procure a cellphone, as you suggested," Castiel repeated into Dean's ear once it drew in close.

"Oh yeah?" Dean nodded into the fog. "I think Bieber there was trying to procure something else."

Castiel cocked his head questioningly. "That was our objective, correct?"

"Is getting felt up part of the transaction?" Dean tried to throw his voice into light joking territory, but the strain it in betrayed him. He uncrossed his arms as soon as he realized he had crossed them, not wanting to seem too defensive.

Castiel blinked as he realized Dean was referring to the interaction that had just transpired. His eyes lit up in earnest.

"Close proximity is required to communicate on…" Castiel looked about himself. "…the _dance floor._ "

"What?"

"This is the _dance floor_!" Castiel gestured widely as if he was revealing something marvelous, raising his voice above the music. "It is suggested we 'shut up and dance.' "

"Did Handsy-Mcgee suggest that?"

"Who?"

"That guy—" Dean was mentally kicking himself for getting so worked up about the passing interaction, noting that it meant so little to Castiel that he didn't even follow Dean's comments. He looked off, frowning at himself. "Nevermind."

Castiel blinked, sensing his distress.

"These people…" Castiel's glazed eyes swept across the crowd that gyrated beyond the periphery of the fog, "…do not seem to concern themselves with that concept you so adamantly insist is a human intercommunicative device."

Dean squinted and opened his hands in confusion, barely hearing Castiel's words reaching him over the din. Castiel seemed to search for the phrase, and his eyes lit up once he found it.

" _Personal space_."

Dean nodded in understanding. "Well, yeah, it's—" he stuttered. "They're—…"

Dean looked around, at a loss to explain the particular behavior being exhibited all around them in this place. Castiel barely grasped the concept of drinking for fun, and Dean didn't quite feel up to the challenge of explaining, _what_ , exactly? What gay people were, and why they would have need of their own club? What was he, raising a repressed child in the Midwest? Dean looked at the angel who was staring back at him with amusement subtly playing across the questioning squint of his eyes. He settled for explaining the inexplicable 'friendliness.'

"It's a…different kind of club."

" _Club._ " Castiel rolled the world around his mouth, as if tasting it. "I've never been in a club."

"Well with any luck, we won't be in one much longer. I'm going to try the bar—"

A rambunctious cheer rang out behind Dean as a band of girls led by a blonde in a pink sash (proclaiming "Bride!") and giant, sparkly tiara pranced through the dance floor. A member of the group knocked into Dean's back as she twirled, causing him to stumble forward. Before his face collided against the angel, the motion was halted by strong hands on his biceps. He looked quickly up at Castiel, who held him in a surprisingly steady grip considering his intoxication.

Without his permission, images of the motel room flashed in Dean's mind like an assault, leaving him with instant dry mouth and an erratic heartbeat. He had managed to force the encounter from his mind, but the proximity of Castiel's face to his own sent his mind careening back into the act which now felt like years ago, and simultaneously mere minutes. Dean swallowed, his breath caught and his body seemingly unable to respond—at least, in a way he would sanction at this moment. He hung precariously between pushing Castiel away, and pulling him close in embrace. The result was what felt like a solid minute of motionlessness.

Castiel stared into Dean who felt transfixed there by those deep blue eyes so close to his own blinking green ones. Dean's mouth opened and closed once, soundlessly. As Castiel's lips broke into a sideways smile, Dean straightened stiffly, brushing off the strong hands that still gripped his arms. His eyes darted quickly around, as if daring anyone to catch his eye and claim that they saw. No one noticed, of course.

"Phone. Sam." Dean said resolutely, not meeting Castiel's eye. _And a drink,_ he thought.

"And…personal space." Castiel gave a curt nod, acknowledging Dean's discomfort. The former smile was just a whisper across his eyes now as he, too, looked around. "I'll just, uh—"

"You just enjoy yourself." Dean busied his hands to straightening his shirt, avoiding the angel's gaze. He figured a little distance might help him clear his head.

Castiel blinked at the man, tipping his head, "In what way should I accomplish that?"

"I don't know," Dean shrugged, gesturing vaguely around the dance floor. "Have fun. Just…try to keep your pants on. I'm going to find a phone."

Have _fun_. Castiel nodded, watching as a couple holding hands lifted their drinks in the air with a jubilant "woo-hoo!" as they bounced lightly to the beat, weaving through the others on the dance floor. _Fun._

Dean set off toward the bar, feeling the distance drawing between them with each step. Castiel obediently stayed. Dean stopped and turned to look back before the wall separating the dance floor from the bar space cut off his line of vision to the angel.

Castiel stood amidst the fog, looking around at the lights with an expression of awe. Dean watched him a moment, feeling an odd emotion he couldn't quite place. Castiel looked positively amused, albeit a little displaced. The angel's typical response to immersion in human phenomenon was one of studious examination, rarely resembling anything like entertainment. Sure, it was probably the alcohol rendering him utterly captivated by the situation, but Dean passively wondered how many times Castiel's been able to just…be. Or play. It wasn't ideal—hell, Dean didn't even know a place like this was even a thing. But the look of wonderment in Castiel's features made him look almost human, and imparted Dean with an odd feeling of satisfaction.

Dean's mouth twisted in a half-smile as the regret of ending up at "The Mixup" in the first place slipped its tight grip from around his shoulders, relaxing the tension slightly for the first time since they were transported from the motel room.

Dean started suddenly as he realized Castiel was looking back at him, tipping his head to the side like he did. It caught Dean in the throat, that expression of interest and curiosity. It was so…Castiel. And so…

Dean blinked and let the wall divide their visual connection as he continued on toward the bar.

 _Definitely could use a drink…_


	11. Chapter 11 - The Shot

Green eyes scanned along the white bar that faded through the colors of the rainbow in soft luminescence. A single barstool stood unoccupied near the end, between a couple rather cozily sharing a seat and a man keeping to himself. Dean slid into the stool, folding his arms to rest on the bar top—the first feeling of familiarity wafting through him since arriving at the club.

The bartender was a tanned, toned guy who's muscularity was apparent in his exposing outfit—just a pair of short, shiny, short, gold, tight, short shorts. Normally Dean was a master at the indicative I-need-a-drink pose, but it involved leaning forward and making eye contact, which he found himself, at present, having difficulty. The urge to cover his eyes with his palm was overwhelming, and subconsciously he compromised by rubbing his hand across his forehead and brows.

He was spared the effort of getting attention, but not the visuals as shimmering gold appeared between the cracks in his fingers.

"You look like you need a blowjob."

Dean's face hardened and he dropped his hand, staring incredulously at the bartender before him.

"Excuse me?" The threat of a fight was barely disguised behind his tightened jaw.

With a smirk, the bartender threw his thumb over his shoulder. "They're on special tonight."

Dean followed the line of his point that indicated a sign hanging on the back bar. In pink-colored chalk was written, "Blowjob Shots! $3"

Dean's mouth dropped open slightly, and something inquisitive within him dared to ask, "What's in it?"

"Mostly sugar. Irish cream and coffee liqueur," the bartender's hands never stopped moving as he washed, dried, and polished glassware. "I also do a pretty bad-ass Lemon Drop."

"Whiskey, neat. Thanks."

"Ooh," his lips quirked to the side, a kind of mocking in his expression that came off as entirely playful. "Big-boy drink."

Dean grunted, finding himself in new, awkward territory at a _bar_ —usually his place of solace. He stared off to the side—unable to face the taunting glint in the bartender's eye, and afraid to make eye contact with…anything else.

"You look like a top-shelf kinda guy," the bartender surmised as he turned a short glass over on the bar top in front of him.

"Midrange, mostly," Dean shrugged, still avoiding eye-contact. The man before him hardly seemed affected, the smirk clearly at home on his lips.

"I've got a bourbon two steps above hooch, that work?"

"Perfect," Dean nodded, adding, "Make it a double."

The side-ways angle of Dean's glance meant he noticed the pair of brown eyes out of his peripheral vision as they turned up at him, inquiring sympathetically, "Rough night?"

"Just…not what I expected," Dean muttered in reply. He felt exposed without his leather jacket—he was hardly a t-shirt-only kind of guy out in the wild. He ducked his head slightly to compensate for his vulnerability, and idly wondered how the bartender must feel wearing what he considered next to nothing.

"Those are sometimes the most exciting," the man beside him said with a half-grin. Dean gave him a side-long look. He was a stocky guy, and obviously had some height on Dean even though they were seated. His face was a little rounder, but partially obscured by a bushy beard and mustache that matched the short, dark hair on his head. He wore a green and blue checkered button-up shirt, which relieved Dean of the discomfort of carrying on a conversation with someone half-naked.

"Yeah, well…" Dean nodded in thanks to the filled cup placed before him, and filed some cash out onto the bar top. The man next to Dean raised his cocktail to his mouth. He finished his reply with a shrug.

"First time in?" he asked, taking a sip.

Dean pursed his lips, unable to find a suitable answer. He sipped his whiskey, and straightened as his mission dawned on him—he had gotten distracted.

"Actually, I'm just trying to get a hold of my brother. I…forgot my phone."

"Oh?" The big guy seemed surprised. "Something wrong?"

"Nah, it's just…kind of been a crazy night and…" Dean struggled with the fine line of being vague enough to satisfy, but not mysterious enough to pique interest. "I just think he might be worried. There's not a payphone here, is there?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Not for going on 10 years now. But you can use my cell, if you need."

Dean lit up, his mouth quirking into a thankful smile. "Yeah?"

"Sure." He reached into his pocket, then paused. "But hey. This isn't some elaborate scheme to steal my phone, is it? I just got it not two weeks ago."

Dean couldn't help but chuckle.

"Trust me, man. If all I needed was a new phone, my night would be a helluva lot simpler."

"I understand." He returned a grin and handed Dean the black block of a phone. "The name's Carter, by the way."

"Dean," he replied with a grateful nod. They shook hands—a strong, masculine shake—and Dean idly wondered what a lumber-jack looking guy like him was doing here. Maybe he wasn't the only one finding himself way off course this evening. Dean flipped open the phone, pressing ten numbers in sequence that were etched like stone into his brain.

The line rang… he waited, realizing with a tight throat that he hadn't prepared any sort of explanation for his disappearance. Dean held his breath, and let it out in relief when the final ring went to voicemail.

 _Beep_.

"Hey, Sammy…I know you're not in the habit of answering random numbers so…" Dean cleared his throat. "Anyway, it's Dean. I'm just— Everything's fine. I mean, I'm just letting you know we—I went out and uh…" Dean covered the mouthpiece on the phone with his hand as a roar of whoops and yells rang out behind him, and he caught sight out of the corner of his eye of a shirtless man acting as a table for two others who picked small plastic cups off his body with their mouths and tossed them back. Dean shook his head, replacing the phone at his ear and speaking with haste. "I might not be back 'till late so, don't wait up or anything. Just, yeah. Don't worry about me."

Dean paused as he fought himself to explain something—anything. He decided against it. Vague is better. "I'll see you in the morning."

 _Click._

"Thanks, man." Dean held the phone out to Carter, who smirked, making no motion to take it.

"Don't mention it. But, uh…you forgot something."

Dean scrunched his eyebrows, the green eyes below them flicking uncertainly to the phone.

"You can go ahead and put your own number in there," Carted said cooly, raising his drink and taking a long sip.

Dean blinked, caught in the headlights, and managed a stutter.

"Oh, that's…no, I'm not—…" Dean set the phone next to Carter's elbow, turning away awkwardly with a grunt.

A relaxed amusement held its post on the stocky man's bearded face as Dean stammered and fell quiet. After a moment, Carter slipped his phone back into his pocket, goading, "Not…?"

Dean wrestled with himself.

"See, it's fine if you are…" Dean gestured at Carter to assist his ambiguity, "—I mean, _that_ you are. Obviously. But I'm not—I'm… _really_ into women."

Surprise showed evident on the man's face, quickly replaced with a smirk and a chuckle as he tasted his drink. "You might be in the wrong place for that, son."

"Yeah, I'm not…" Dean mumbled, turning into his whiskey, "…really looking for anything."

"I see…" This revelation didn't seem to deter him. Carter seemed more amused than put off. He ventured, "And you're here—?"

"By accident." Dean took a large gulp.

"Ah."

Thankfully Carter didn't push it, though his eyebrows remained poised in interest. Dean caught the bartender's eye as he looked his way, nodding in affirmation to the silent inquiry, _Another?_

"Does your wife know you're here?"

"I don't have—" Dean took a breath, unsure which was the worse assumption. Shaking his head, he grumbled a final, passive defense, "It's not like that."

"Nah, it's fine," Carter smiled nonchalantly into his own glass, genuinely seeming to drop the subject. "You don't have to explain yourself to anyone."

"Damn straight." Dean said as his whiskey arrived.

"Damn gay." Carter replied.

Dean blinked at him, who winked in return. Dean's mouth cracked into a grin at that, and as if in unspoken agreement, they clinked glasses, drinking in unison.

"So, you uh, come here often?" Dean asked lamely, after a moment of shared, comfortable silence.

Carter laughed. "Seriously?"

Dean replied with a shrug and a smirk, tossing an aloof hand in the air. "I don't know, man."

"Once or twice a month. Not much else going on around…" Carter trailed off as if distracted, glancing over his shoulder uncertainly. "Can I help you?"

Dean looked to the side, startling slightly as, undetected until now, a figure stood in close proximity behind him, white shirt glowing in the blacklight. Dean met eyes with Castiel, who studied the both of them curiously.

"Oh, he's with me." Dean said offhandedly, turning readily back to his drink.

"I see." Carter was watching Castiel closely, who was watching Dean with that soft gaze of his.

Dean stiffened, suddenly aware of the implication.

"No," he huffed, glancing quickly at Carter, Castiel, and then back into his cup. "Not like that."

"Nah, I said you're cool, man." Carter's smile was smug, lackadaisical. He shrugged, "This is an open place."

Castiel's attention flicked back and forth between the two men as they conversed, with that peculiar consideration that was customary to him. Dean heard the man beside him chuckle softly and his lips drew a flat line, face flushed and witty replies nonexistent.

"Did you acquire a phone?" Castiel inquired to Dean.

"Yep." Dean avoided his gaze. "And more importantly…" He lifted his drink in indication.

Castiel turned to Carter who was sizing him up him with a mirthful smirk. Castiel returned a half-smile. They came easier to him tonight.

"Would you like a drink?" Carter offered to Castiel.

Castiel blinked, saying carefully with a long look at Dean, "I would, but…"

"Well _clearly_ he's got no claim on you," Carter said teasingly, nodding at Dean. "So that makes you free to do as you please!"

Castiel paused as if in thought, then said resolutely, "I would like a drink."

He clapped Castiel on the back, who smiled at the familiar gesture insinuating camaraderie. Carter caught the bartender's eye and shouted, "Two blowjobs, please!"

Castiel's eyes sparkled in interest, Carter grinned in delight, and Dean scowled sullenly into his whiskey, disregarding the events unfolding beside him.

In no time, two small cups filled with brown, creamy liquid appeared in front of them, topped with a mound of fluffy, white whipped-cream.

"He's trying to sober up…" Dean grumbled, eyeing the peculiar, miniature drinks.

"Well truth be told, there's not much alcohol in these anyway." Carter slid one shot in front of Castiel, and shifted his stool over to make room for him to come closer to the bar. He placed the other in front of himself. "The fun is in how you take them."

Castiel stared at the shot, and looked at Carter quizzically.

"You do know how to take a blowjob, don't you?" he raised an eyebrow suggestively.

"I am unfamiliar with that term."

Carter chuckled at what he perceived as a joke.

"Alright, well you put your hands behind your back like this," he demonstrated, making him appear all the more stocky in the process. Castiel watched with interest, diligently folding his arms behind his back while Dean peered into his drink, determined appear entirely detached as he ignored the whole display.

"And then you…" Carter leaned forward and Castiel mimicked him, bending at the waist, enthralled. Carter wrapped his lips around the tiny shot glass, tipping his head back as he straightened up, and swallowed. Dutifully, Castiel did the same, though his action was not as smooth as Carters, and he coughed lightly once the shot was down and glass returned to the bar surface.

"What an odd custom," Castiel said, turning the small cup over in his fingers.

Carter laughed boisterously as flecks of whipped cream dotted his mustache, and clapped Castiel on the back, clearly delighted. Dean rolled his eyes, throwing an annoyed glance Castiel's way, and noticed the thick smear of whipped cream trailing across his upper lip. The sight turned his stomach over, and he flushed at some deep, hidden, primal urge to reach forward and lick it off. Subconsciously his tongue ran over his own lips, and Castiel—who was watching him—mirrored the motion as if by natural force, discovering the whipped cream himself in the process. He reached up with his thumb and wiped it off, studying the tip of his finger with interest.

Dean turned his back sharply on Castiel, setting his forehead in the crook of his thumb and forefinger in what he hoped looked like annoyed indifference. His feigned attempt at appearing irritable, in truth, was to mask the rouge to his cheeks spurred by the overwhelming desire to see just exactly what Castiel did with the cream, and his face burned with humiliation at himself and this strangely fervent urge. Did he lick it off? Or merely wipe it off on his pants? His breath caught and the image of the former action sent his blood pumping, which only served to agitate and disturb him further. Through the whirlwind of his embarrassment, Dean hardly caught the continuation of the conversation happening to the side of him.

"Now for more fun you can take it the way you're supposed to," Carter grinned devilishly and nodded in Dean's direction. "Off someone's lap."

Dean narrowed his eyes at him but Castiel piped up before any response formed.

"Why ingest it in that manner?"

"Because, it's…" Carter opened his palm in a waving gesture, as if it would clear anything up. _A blowjob, obviously._

Castiel tipped his head to the side, waiting expectantly for an explanation. Carter paused a beat, mouth hanging open dubiously. His dark brows raised.

"You do know what a blowjob is, don't you, son?"

Castiel blinked, shaking his head. Carter studied him skeptically, searching his face for signs of jest. Finding none, he leaned back with his eyes wide and astonished. He looked to Dean, who stared into his whiskey with the intense nonchalance of trying to solve a quantum physics calculation and appear bored at the same time.

Carter's lips twitched with the effort of containing a wicked grin as he motioned Castiel closer, who leaned in uncertainly. Castiel's eyes slowly grew wide as Carter murmured in his ear. The realization dawned on him, and Carter's smile widened as Dean's scowl deepened into his drink.

"I was not aware there was a term." Castiel straightened and stared at the bar as connections sparked. The effort to not look in Dean's direction broke and his eyes slid to the hunkered-down man who avoided his gaze at all costs.

"Oh, buddy. You're a riot," Carter let out a laugh both at Castiel's expression of understanding and Dean's look of bitter evasion. He chuckled into his drink as it raised to his lips, "Looks like your guide isn't being very thorough."

In one swift motion, Dean threw the remaining whiskey to the back of his throat and slammed the empty glass onto the bar top, garnering a few curious glances from other patrons and the bartender. In a smoldering furor, he whirled off the bar stool and took off, heading to the corridor leading to the exit.

Lamentation plain as day was written across Castiel's face as his eyes trailed behind the man storming off away from him, again. He turned to follow, halting only at the pressure of a hand on his shoulder. He glanced at Carter, who's smile was replaced by a sympathetic purse of his lips.

"Look, man," Carter ran his hand through his hair. "I don't know what that guy's deal is, but you've got walls thicker than Fort Knox to break through with that one if you want him to see you the way you…"

Castiel's eyes turned on him, full of that solemn certainty they only held when they regarded Dean. The sight caught Carter mid-thought, and his hand slipped from Castiel's shoulder. He shook his head, a smile of compassion playing on his lips.

"Go get him, then."

Castiel nodded, pausing after one step to turn back to the bearded man as if remembering himself.

"Thank you for the blowjob." His voice was flat, but sincere.

"Anytime." Carter's mouth cracked into that grin of his. "Now go."

He did.


	12. Chapter 12 - The Passage

Caged.

It was not a feeling Dean Winchester wore well. The need for freedom and desire to escape pulsated though his veins with every hot beat of his heart, and his muscles twitched with the effort of holding him still until the moment he was ready to make his move.

 _"Sorry, hun. No re-entry after midnight."_

 _Dean turned his scowl from the large glass window separating himself from a few sparse flecks of snowfall outside. The host shrugged unapologetically._

 _"I don't make the rules, but you better believe I enforce 'em. So unless you're walking…"_

Trapped.

The eyes locking him in place shone bright even in the darkness of the corridor, the expanse of which stretched between them like years of unspoken restraint.

An angel.

The figure framed by the doorway blocked his path, seeming larger somehow despite his stature being none-too-intimidating, the thin white shirt revealing the slight of his shoulders. But it wasn't the build of his body or the strength of his power that set his precedent as an impenetrable force.

But those eyes.

A imperceptible tremble wracked through Dean, and he felt his jaw set and muscles tighten into stone against it. The blare of the music seemed outside of them, muffled in this passage between two escapes of different nature, neither of which were available to him.

"Aren't you supposed to be sobering up so we can get out of here?" Dean asked, the callous apparent in his voice.

"The alcohol content of that particular drink was minimal." Castiel replied evenly. "It should be more or less an hour before I am capable of transporting us back."

"An hour in the circus, huh?" Dean shoved his hands in his pockets, keeping the distance between them.

"My body processes alcohol much faster than your human body, but the rate at which I consumed…" He paused as if in thought. "I am potentially nearing the peak of the effects."

Dean laughed dryly at the irony of such a level-headed statement, considering the circumstances. The effects of his own imbibing were well underway, and he planted his feet firmly so as to not sway in the slight blur of the world.

"Well I'm glad you're having a good time." The sarcasm in Dean's voice was not lost on Castiel this time.

Castiel's brows knitted along with his trademark head-tilt. "I thought the evening's aim was to _drink lots, have fun_?"

"You sure took that idea and ran with it, didn't you, Forrest?" Dean looked away. He felt something bubbling deep within him, and masked the uneasiness of its presence with his standard antagonism.

"You were the one engaging in such behavior to begin with," Castiel stepped forward, the rhythmic beat dampening in volume the further he ventured into the corridor. "I did what I thought best. What I thought—" The hint of defense seeped into his voice, and he frowned, stopping. _You wanted…_

Dean raked his hand through his hair and sighed. Castiel was irrefutably correct, and a twinge of remorse prickled his shoulders at that confused, kicked-puppy look of his.

"I know," Dean muttered, relenting. He took a few slow, tentative steps forward, shortening the gap between them. "I didn't mean for us to end up in this mess."

Castiel's expression softened and he, too, stepped forward, meeting Dean in the middle of the dark passage. They locked eyes and for a moment, with no witnesses, all else faded beyond their consciousness, as if the volume had been turned down on the world and the measured passage of time fell idle in serenity. The movement of the glowing blue bracelet barely registered in Dean's thoughts as it raised towards him.

He did, however, start at the recognition of a hand placed gently on his forearm. Dean took a step back, breaking the contact.

"Listen, Cas." Dean's fingers swept beneath his own notice to the spot on his arm that was touched, brushing it lightly. "About…about all of this. About back there." He nodded to the end of the corridor and took a deep breath, lowering his gaze. "I don't think I can."

"Can what, Dean?" Castiel's feet matched Dean's retreat, and his deep eyes searched the man's face before him for hints.

"Deal." Dean shrugged, mumbling, "With whatever—this—is."

He gestured between them.

"What do you mean?" Castiel watched the motion and cocked his head.

"I don't know, I just—." Dean crossed his arms and turned his back to the wall, leaning his shoulder blades against it. He shrugged again, at a loss.

A moment of silent struggle played out between them. Castiel wished to press for answers, to understand so he could overcome, but at each question Dean seemed to slip farther away. Castiel knew if cornered, Dean would bolt. Every time.

"You don't have to explain yourself, Dean." Determined to glean whatever information he could visually, Castiel aligned himself in front of the man, inspecting his face with research-worthy intensity. Dean glanced up at him, and Castiel recognized a flicker of relief in the man's eyes. He felt spurred on by the first sign of softness since arriving in the passageway.

It seemed any time he made progress, getting close enough to what Castiel was certain by this point was there beneath it all, Dean slammed on the breaks and threw up his barricades. Castiel had gathered by now that the gender of his vessel mattered and made Dean uncomfortable with their…engagement, but Castiel was not a man. He was an angel. And he was in new territory himself, barely ciphering everything he was feeling. Heaven was simpler. Fight, watch, obey. Dean's erratic behavior only served to confound him, and navigating their unspoken entanglement made for an endless, winding labyrinth. Usually with the involvement of alcohol, Dean's barriers faded and things were made more clear, but tonight…things had gone too awry.

Castiel drew closer, and Dean's back pressed firmly into the wall, unable to retreat further.

"Listen, Cas—" the words barely escaped him, but Castiel was close enough to catch them.

"I've been listening." Castiel's was almost a whisper.

"You just don't get it." The edge was creeping back into his voice. "I'm not— I'm just…not whatever I have to be for this. It's not my style."

"I don't think clothing is part of the inherent issue."

"Dammit, Cas, I'm not gay!"

"That matter remains irrelevant to how I feel about you, Dean."

Dean's mouth gaped soundlessly, this reply being the last of his expectations. It bounced around his head, refusing to be processed, and left him silent.

Castiel looked down, seeming to struggle with himself. "I just want you to be—"

He stopped himself, not for lack of words but the barrage of them to choose from. Each word coming to mind seemed a more ridiculous request than the one before.

 _Yourself._

 _Happy._

 _Mine._

Castiel's cheeks burned at the truth threatening to sear a hole through his tongue. Dean looked down, finding in himself what he could only discern, but would never admit, as fear racing through him as he pondered the unspoken end to that sentence. He had expectations thrust on him by everyone he knew, but maybe whatever Castiel wanted him to be was something he'd be okay with being. Maybe it would be closer to his own truth.

Castiel looked up and caught the softness in Dean's features he so adamantly sought, and in the next instant his lips were against Dean's, pinning the back of his head against the wall. Dean's eyes widened and his breath caught, fixed between the surprise of the action and slowed reflexes courtesy of whiskey. Castiel pressed the full length of his body into Dean, binding him to the wall with both hands pressing against the rough bricks on either side of Dean's shoulders as he kissed him.

Dean grasped for that firm conviction he held a moment ago that buckled so weakly with the heat of Castiel's strength forcing into him. He managed to free his mouth with a turn of his head, face flushing red-hot as he flickered through polar opposite emotions in rapid succession.

"Cas, what are you doing?" Dean murmured, defenseless. He uncrossed his arms and pressed his hands against Castiel with laughably feeble sincerity.

"Having ' _fun.'_ " His murmur was sincere, but came off like a tease. Castiel was not deterred by Dean's disengagement, and let his lips trace across his jaw as his face turned. "That was the intent for the occasion?"

"Y…yeah, but…" Dean whispered weakly. A shiver wracked his body as the angel's open mouth grazed a warm line down his neck. As if a switch had been hit, Castiel was in complete control. Dean's eyes fluttered closed and his face lifted, exposing more of the delicate surface of his throat to Castiel's purposeful lips. The grip loosened around the conflict he had been grasping at so desperately. His resistance dissolved with each certain press of Castiel's lips against his skin, and for a brief moment he met his eyes as he pulled back. Castiel found in Dean's his desire reflected back at him, and their lips collided once more in the dark of the tunnel.

This time, Dean pressed back.

Dean brought a hand up to Castiel's hair, weaving in the tufts and pulling his face into his own. Their mouths remained connected as Dean pushed off from the wall, rolling to drive Castiel's back against the bricks. Dean pinned him there with the full force of his body, lips parting against Castiel's to beg for entrance. Castiel responded to his request much more ardently than he had the first time they kissed, his understanding of the mechanics becoming more familiar now. At Castiel's opened mouth, Dean thrust his tongue in, exploring his taste and pressing one hand against the brick wall, and the other at the back of Castiel's neck, deepening the kiss. Castiel's own hands moved from their lowered position against the wall to the rippled muscles of Dean's shoulder blades, pressing flatly against them and dragging down the curve of his back. Their connection took on a rhythmic movement, the unity of their bodies pressed close, undulating slightly with a light grinding of hips and the aching hunger of exploring hands that couldn't be satisfied.

Castiel's tongue flicked against Dean's experimentally, eliciting a light moan. A surge of heat roared through Castiel at the sound, and he gripped at Dean's back with fervor, as if by sheer force of will he could absorb him into one passionate entity. The strength of Castiel's hands stirred a fragility in Dean, who never once felt delicate in another's arms. He encompassed the angel's body with his own arms, wrapping around his waist and pulling him close with such zeal that he nearly lifted him from the ground. A light gasp escaped Castiel as the embrace almost knocked the wind out of him.

Dean's mouth parted from Castiel's only to connect with the soft skin of his neck and drag along the hard line of his jaw, relishing the texture of the stubble on his lips and tongue and face, the motion simultaneously gentle and ruthless in its yearning. Castiel lifted his face to the ceiling, eyes closed and fingertips digging in at Dean's shoulders, which arched into them. If this could last…if this moment could last… Dean reclaimed Castiel's mouth, pressing one hand against his face and another at his hip, breaking the fleeting thought that Castiel was damn near to praying.

Hands explored each other at a feverish place, mouths working hungrily against one another, Castiel's body fastened tight between the brick wall and Dean, whose hips were all but grinding against him. The movement slowed, but didn't stop. Castiel pressed into Dean, willing him to ignore what was coming, but his desire had no purchase.

Awareness of the approaching persons scraped at the edges of Dean's peripherals, and the weight of dread pulled his lips from Castiel's mouth at the intrusion of laughter and a note of "whoo!" rising from the entrance. Castiel sought to reclaim him, but opened his eyes as the steady pressure of Dean's body left him, one halting hand on his chest. The suspended craving hung thick in the air, clear in the focus of their eyes on one another. A group of four sauntered by in the corridor, cackling and talking and weaving with the evidence of a night of indulgence. Dean straightened from across the distance between himself and Castiel, idly adjusting his shirt and avoiding Castiel's demanding stare.

The moment was broken, and Castiel lamented it. This manifested in a surge of heat at the back of his neck.

Once the group had passed, Dean's gaze followed them, thoughts interrupted as a fist closed around the front of his shirt and threw him forward. Castiel caught him against his body, bringing his face mere inches from Dean, who had nowhere to look but into the sea of blue, urgent eyes.

"What?" Dean asked, as if unaware of how the rouge of pink around his lips came to be.

"Why are you ashamed?" Castiel demanded.

Dean balked at the question, but the proximity allowed Castiel to see into his truth—the one he tried to sweep under a rug of ignorance.

"Not in front of people, Cas," Dean said meekly, ignoring that pang of guilt surfacing with the expression of questioning and hurt on the other's face. If Castiel had developed a poker face, that talent shattered with the introduction of booze.

"Do you think the people here care about what you are or are not?" Castiel's voice was gruff, and he slowly released his grip on Dean's shirt.

"I care, Cas," Dean noted the disheveled tufts of black hair sticking out of the side of Castiel's head, and suppressed the urge to reach out and smooth them down.

"Do you think having witnesses alters that?"

Dean sighed, scratching his head. "Listen, man, I'm not trying to…"

He paused, determined not to talk about feelings as he looked into those searching, questioning eyes. _Hurt you?_ His stomach turned and he attempted a diversion. "If we could get back to the room…"

"I am unable—" Castiel started, irritated.

"I know, I know." Dean ached at the sight of Castiel straightening from where he was leaning against the wall, the moment broken and fading fast. He wanted to reach to him, to say something, but his limbs were suddenly lead and his mouth dry. "But it won't be long, right?"

"An hour or so, yes." Castiel's face burned with an unidentified emotion, and his eyebrows furrowed as he looked away. He recognized a feeling of abandonment, and attempted to subdue the thought with a harsher, less vulnerable emotion. His words came out low, almost a growl, "Then you can return to your dirty room and your insipid brother and your precious cherry pie."

With that, Castiel turned on his heel, heading toward the light at the end of the passage that led to the bar.

Castiel stopped when the word, quiet with some guarded doubt, reached his back.

"…What?"

A moment of silence hung thick in the air.

"Cas," Dean began flatly. "How did you know about the pie?"

Castiel's breath caught. _Oh._ He searched for a reply, facing away from the man.

"You…always have pie," he said, sounding unconvincing even to himself.

"Bullshit."

Castiel turned slowly, facing a different person than the one who had him pinned against the wall a moment ago. He felt more trapped now, and could almost feel waves of something deep and dangerous rolling off of Dean. Castiel swallowed.

"After I…left," The words had to be forced out. He knew how this would go. "My return may have been…sooner than it was revealed to be."

"Oh," Dean's eyebrows raised, and his stillness was like a lion bent in wait to pounce on prey. The softness was gone. "So, you saw…"

 _Slowly, his head tilted back to rest on the chair's cushion behind him. He pressed the palm of his hand flat against his jeans, slowing a moment and breathing deeply._

 _Castiel's lips parted, the only movement from the corner of the room where he stood, shrouded in invisibility. The alcohol had already begun to affect him, but this was not a justifiable cause for his continued observations._

 _Dean's hand ventured up his stomach, bringing the fabric of his shirt peeking above his belt-line._

 _His eyes were unable to leave the man, his voice gone. His face flushed and Castiel knew this was a private moment—one where his presence was undeniably an intrusion._

 _With one hand, Dean undid the buckle, pulling the button of his jeans and drawing the zipper down as well…_

 _The guilt waned beneath the curiosity and raw desire as he watched the man, throat catching at his utterances. He bit his lip, helpless to stop and rip his eyes away. Unable to leave._

Castiel looked away, mumbling shamefully, "I may have witnessed certain…events unfolding."

"So you're spying on me now?" The edge in Dean's voice sent a part of Castiel grasping for the former tenderness that was now lost to him.

"Not spying." Castiel asserted defensively, his own temper rising to meet Dean's anger. "I just—I did not know how to proceed."

"How you _proceed,_ is you don't." Dean stepped forward, seething with humiliation. His words fell out like a landslide. "You get your ass out of the room, and you never talk about it. You don't hide in the corner and watch like some creepy weirdo freak."

Castiel's jaw clenched. "I felt you call for me."

This accusation hit Dean in the face. His expression hardened and he narrowed his eyes, closing the gap as he got in Castiel's face, glowering.

 _"_ I did no such thing and if you had a clue, you'd shut your mouth about it, alright?" Dean pointed toward the bar, "That guy in there doesn't know shit, and you're wrong. I am not your "guide," I am not your porn. And I am not your boyfriend. If you're after some ass, there's plenty to choose from." Dean shoved past Castiel, knocking into his shoulder. "Go knock yourself out, just make sure to wrap it."

 _Enough of this._

A hand on his shoulder halted his escape, and in one fluid motion, Dean's back slammed against the brick wall, his shoulders pinned with a strength with which there was no contesting. Dean blinked in shock, the force of his entrapment rendering him motionless, and the gloom of Castiel's dangerous eyes rendering him speechless.

His voice came like a storm, low and foreboding.

"You forget yourself, Dean Winchester." His hands clenched in fists full of shirt. "And I suggest you take a moment to remember. You may wish to renounce our previous encounters as an incidental affliction, but I am not deserving of your insult and contempt." His breath was hot he spit the words in Dean's face. The white knuckles pressing into Dean's shoulders bruised his flesh. "Do not dare to hope to know me in solitary and then deny me with estrangement before others. Do not stand before me with your cowardice and then come to me in that ravenous black of night, reeking of whiskey, and beg for me to have you." He growled in even measures, but the ferocity of his tone not lost in the calm with which he uttered them. "You forget, I am not your 'side piece' for which you beckon to your bed at your whim and then deny me in the light. And you forget I am a warrior of heaven and of a position deserving some respect." His face came even closer, and all the wrath of heaven and torment of hell sparked flames that lit his eyes. "You will do well to remember that."

With a final push, Castiel roughly released his hold on the man's shirt and turned his back on him, leaving Dean staring after him, breathing heavily, sagging weakly against the wall in the dark of the passage.


	13. Chapter 13 - The Switch

_"You forget I am a warrior of heaven and of a position deserving some respect. You will do well to remember that."_

Dean nearly stumbled out of the corridor back into the flashing lights, all the fire gone out of him and replaced with a whirlwind. His hand was at his shoulder, still feeling the pressure of knuckles digging into them, the ache of it mixed with a sharp sensation of loss.

His thoughts swirled as his feet carried him, as if by habit, to a lone stool near the end of the bar. He all but collapsed into it with a heavy sigh, his face lightly flushed and his breath short as if he had just run a marathon. He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm his racing heart, the beat of which seemed to drown out the beat of the music. What confounded him the most about the whole encounter was that it was not fear that now had him so shaken, but a strange, palpable arousal. And this he simply could not wrap his head around.

"Another whiskey, hun?"

Dean blinked away his thoughts, shaking his head. "I could use a water."

The bartender smiled and nodded with understanding.

Dean fixated his stare into the clear cup once it arrived, rolling the memory around his head, and attempting to come to grips with his body's seemingly unnatural response. _Seriously, what the hell?_

"How'd it go?"

Dean was pulled from his thoughts at the semi-familiar voice and he looked up, surprised to find he had seated himself in the exact spot he was before. Carter was looking at him out of the corner of his eye, a sort of sympathetic smirk obscured by the dark beard on his face.

Dean blew air out his nose, a dry laugh without humor. He sipped his water.

* * *

Castiel stared into the pool of brown liquid, sloshing it back and forth slightly. The smell of it didn't appeal to him, but he had acted in the heat of his fury upon emerging from the passage. This is what you do when you're upset, right? You drink.

 _"I am not your boyfriend. If you're after some ass, there's plenty to choose from. Go knock yourself out."_

He took a sip, the intensity of the encounter leaving a knot in his gut. The heat of his ire waned in his escape, and as it melted he found a sharp pang of remorse had replaced it.

 _"Do not stand before me with your cowardice and then come to me in that ravenous black of night and beg for me to have you."_

Castiel sighed. Dean's erratic behavior had gotten him so tightly wound, the stretch and snap of the rubber band that was his affection tried his patience until _he_ snapped, himself. He swallowed, remembering the fury that consumed him, and the green eyes that widened at his ferocity. But now he bit at his tongue, realizing the cost of his words.

It wasn't true that secret nights with Dean insulted him. If anything, he felt honored to have even a moment of Dean's full attention, to be allowed to bring him pleasure, to balance in that precarious heat of his arms.

He would rather have them.

Castiel blinked in surprise at the tightness of his throat, loosening it with another drink of whiskey. He sighed audibly and noticed a pair of eyes to his left that were focused curiously in his direction.

"One of those nights, huh?" He was a thin guy with short, blonde hair that swooped up into a point at the tip. His features had an elf-like quality, fair skin and high cheekbones. A ring hooped in his right nostril, and Castiel found his attention drawn to it. "Yeah, me too."

"Is someone ashamed of you?" Castiel said without inflection into his whiskey.

The guy laughed, "Just my dad."

Something about the honesty of it brought a small smile to Castiel's lips.

"What are you drinking?"

Castiel peered into his cup impassively. "Whiskey."

"The hard stuff. I like it." Blondie turned his eyes to the bartender who tended to him in no time. "I'll have what he's having." He nodded in Castiel's direction.

The bartender in shiny gold shorts raised his brows.

"Damn, we've got a house full of ballers tonight, don't we? Whiskey neat's never been so hot." The bartender glanced over his shoulder with a smirk. Castiel followed his gaze down the bar, recognizing the man in the white t-shirt who was faced away from him at the moment.

Castiel's heart leapt in his throat, and he stared down into his drink.

* * *

"Well I can't say I'm surprised. You strike me as the difficult type," Carter said with a smirk.

Dean hunched over his cup. "I'd consider hitting you if it weren't so damn near to the truth."

Carter bellowed in amusement at this. Dean bit his lip and drained his water.

"You knucklehead." The booming laugh subsided to a chuckle as Carter shook his head. "You don't even realize what you've got, do you?"

"Yeah, and what is that?"

"If you don't know, then you don't deserve it."

Dean's mouth drew a hard line at this, but the fire was gone from him.

 _Deserve._

The word echoed around in his mind like a pebble dropped into a cavern. A rock so small in a dark, unforgiving void, it's inconsequential pattern knocking against cold walls without notice, worthless. Dean swallowed, the tension in his brows ceding with an inner resignation.

 _Of course I don't._

* * *

"Oh wow, cute." Percy—he had introduced himself as, seeming impervious to Castiel's sullen demeanor—raised his eyebrows in approval in Dean's direction. "If not a little moody-looking. You're a lucky guy."

"I do not feel lucky."

"Hey, man. All fabulous couples have their rough patches. Just look at Brangelina."

"I do not know who that is."

"Yeah, they're dead to me, too." Percy sipped his whiskey and made a face at it. The blonde had a certain friendliness and a genuine honesty in his countenance that disarmed Castiel's natural restraint.

Curiosity dotted Percy's nonchalance as he asked, "What did you do?"

Castiel thought a moment, then said slowly, "I…admonished him."

"Ah." Percy clicked his tongue in disapproval. "You can't overstep your bounds with a top."

"A…top?" Castiel blinked, considering the spinning child's toy he knew was called such.

"Yeah, clearly. You're telling me with your wide-eyed puppy-dog stare that you're not the bottom in this relationship?"

Castiel stared at the bar top with his brow furrowed. Percy laughed.

* * *

"But hey, he seems to think you're worth the trouble you cause." Carter nudged Dean playfully in the arm with his elbow, either blissfully unaware of his melancholy, or blatantly ignoring it. "The guy's got it bad for you."

Dean's lip curled derisively. He was pretty sure Castiel would have nothing to do with him at this point, and Dean didn't blame him. He wouldn't be surprised if the angel zipped away as soon as he was able, leaving Dean to find his own way. The remnants of the encounter in the corridor still clung to his shoulders and pricked the back of his neck.

Somehow, despite the prying, the present company appealed to Dean more than rummaging through his convoluted thoughts alone.

"You sure seem an expert on the matter," Dean mumbled.

Carter scoffed.

"Oh, come on. You two come in here, keeping your hands to yourself and making googly eyes across the room? Makes me sick." Carter raised his glass to his lips, muttering, "And a little jealous."

Dean felt a rouge at his cheeks, being called out so openly. "Yeah, we're the perfect couple."

"Hey, I can tell you it's no picnic every day of the year, but you're going to look at him and tell me it's not worth it to have a guy like that on your side?"

Carter nodded behind Dean, over his shoulder. Dean turned and followed his gaze down the bar, where the sight of a man in a blue tie froze him fast. His face was turned away, deep in conversation with a young blonde man with a nose ring. How did he not notice him there?

 _"I did it - all of it - for you." The blue eyes held no lie, but burned with the wrath and gravity of a man who acted against his own judgement, for a purpose other than doing what he was told._

A door creaked open in Dean's mind and like a flood, recollections of Castiel in all his power and devotion, all his sacrifice, flashed in rapid succession, the truth of it tightening his throat.

 _"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition."_

Subconsciously, Dean's hand raised to his left shoulder, where it rested over the spot he knew a red print resided beneath the sleeve. It seemed to smolder at the memory.

 _"Good things do happen, Dean."_

The magnitude of the memories echoed through time, subsiding as a soft patter of rain after the storm has passed. Dean took in a deep breath, his eyes far away from the bar and the lights and the man watching intently from beside him.

"And I don't know if you even know this or not," Carter was saying lowly to the back of Dean's head, who couldn't rip his eyes away from the angel at the other end of the bar. "But you should know that that boy would go to hell and back for you."

Dean's expression broke open, all of its guarded edges falling away as the words hit him like a punch in the gut.

* * *

Percy's laugh was a tenor giggle, good-natured as he raised his glass to cheers Castiel, who's expression was equal parts dumbfounded and enlightened at the descriptions of acts he didn't know had such specific terms.

"You're adorable." Percy giggled, shaking his head. Castiel blinked at him, his bewilderment fading to a look of slight alarm, having never received such a description of himself, and unsure of whether it was a compliment. Percy grinned. "Hey, buddy, there's no shame in it. Everybody has their own cup of tea."

"I do not have a cup of tea."

"What do you mean." Percy spoke low in his throat, imitating Castiel's serious tone, that impish glint in his eye. He regained his own voice. "You mean you don't have a type?"

"I don't—" Castiel frowned, mulling it over. "I don't believe I have a sexuality...outside of my attraction to Dean."

"That's intense." Percy's brows raised, leaving his features without a trace of lines. He pondered this, lighting up as something occurred to him. He smiled slyly, turning over his hand in a circle as he inquired slowly, "So you haven't... before..."

Castiel shook his head once. Percy whistled.

"I am unsure how to proceed." Castiel felt a small brush of pink rising in his features, surprised at his own honesty with this stranger. He inwardly blamed the alcohol. "He…does not like showing affection outside of very particular…private…circumstances."

Percy's playful expression softened with this somber admittance, and he looked at Castiel with clear pity written across his eyes. A moment of silence settled between them.

* * *

Dean put his head in his hand, torn between not wanting to listen and drinking up everything the man was saying. The words seemed to roll out of Carter without thought, but the impact they had on Dean was written clear across his face.

"The way he looks at you." Carter nodded down the bar pointedly. "I tell you what, if half the people in this joint had something like that going for them, it'd be a lonely place in here for a guy like me."

This unassuming, bearded stranger at the bar swore a truth that vibrated in his bones, and something reached within him and nodded in affirmation at his words.

"And you sit here like a sullen teenager, acting like whatever's holding you back isn't all just in your mind." Carter chuckled good-naturedly, sipping from his drink.

* * *

"You know, you didn't ask for this advice," Percy began, a little more serious in his tone. "But you seem like a good guy and I've been around the block a few times."

Castiel glanced his way. "I could use some help navigating the intricacies of this particular dilemma."

"What you should do, is next time he gives you a booty call, don't be so easy."

Castiel squinted uncertainly. "I don't think he gives me _booty calls_."

Percy's face said clearly, _oh please, honey._ "Like he doesn't call you up late at night, drunk, and want sex."

Castiel's eyes fell to the ground.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." He shifted toward Castiel in a conspiring manner, touching his forearm gently. "So, next time...try not to be in such a hurry. That'll show him. Respect yourself, you know? And he will too."

"I respect myself." Castiel said resolutely.

Percy gave him that catechistic, sideways smirk. "You always go after him, right? Like a puppy?"

Castiel deflated. Percy laughed.

"Like I said. Adorable."

* * *

Dean glanced down the bar again, surmising the man Castiel was engaged in talking to was lost in those blue eyes, as he had so often found himself. He saw his hand resting lightly on Castiel's forearm and felt a pang of...what was that, jealousy?

"And he's so damn into you," another laugh wracked Carter and he wiped at his eye. "But hell, deserve it or not, it's there and if you don't take it, you're a damn fool."

"I guess so," Dean grumbled beneath his breath.

"But don't mind me, man," Carter smiled, turning his empty glass over between his thumb and forefinger, "I'm…I'm just a little drunk."

"You…" Dean stared down at the bar top intently, his denial crumbling to ash. "…might be right, though."

Carter laughed, and clapped him on the back a little too hard.

"So what are you waiting for, son? And invitation?" Carter leaned in, conspiringly. He lowered his voice. "Because between you and me, you've already got one and your RSVP is overdue."

* * *

"If I were to not…pursue him…" Castiel's voice dropped, and in the wake of it all the dismay of the outcome filled the silence.

"Those macho types are all the same, they just like to know that they're in control," Percy's certainty was infectious, and Castiel watched him like his words were gospel. "He can be the boss, just don't let him treat you like shit. Y'know?"

Castiel recalled the times his dogged pursuance of Dean's flight just led to more anger and frustration.

Percy took his silence as an agreement, continuing with that unwavering confidence, "As long as he thinks he's making the moves, he'll get what _he_ wants, and you'll get yours, capiche?"

Castiel stole a glance down the bar, catching the side of Dean's face as it was downcast with an expression of which Castiel couldn't surmise the foundation.

"Yes, I capiche." Castiel said firmly. Then, with less surety, "So, what do I do?"

Percy tried to suppress his conspiring grin, and touched Castiel encouragingly on the shoulder.

"Just give him some space, let him do his thang. He'll come around. And the next thing you know—" he snapped his fingers in the air.

Castiel stared at them as if they were the key to a riddle.

* * *

Dean hunched over his water cup, mouth barely moving at the utterances of his words, "So… what do I do?"

Carter bellowed that hearty laugh again, drawing a frown from Dean that border-lined offense.

"It's not funny, man, I'm not usually—"

"You jackass," Carter interrupted him, flinging as if there were no question, "You know what to do."

Dean bit his lip, looking down the bar. Castiel was staring down with an expression that was both intense and sad at the same time. It turned his stomach over.

Dean threw back his water, and stood.

"Screw it."

* * *

Castiel couldn't help but fiddle uncertainly. "How do I know if my…'playing hard to get' is working?"

"Oh, trust me. You'll…know…" Percy's eyes lit up as his speech slowed and he leaned into Castiel, dropping his voice to a whisper. "Shh. Do you hear that?"

"What is it?" Castiel straightened, somewhat alarmed.

Percy snapped his fingers.

Castiel cocked his head in confusion. His would-be answer was interrupted by a grip around his neck that spun him around. He came face-to-face with Dean, who had him fast by the tie.

Castiel blinked at him, motionless.

"Cas," Dean started with conviction, but those deep blue eyes stole all his words away. His mouth opened, then pursed with some hidden struggle. His fist clenched around the tie. Dean took one quick self-conscious glance over his shoulder, then closed his eyes and pulled Castiel in.

Their lips met and Castiel melted into the kiss, reaching up a steadying hand as Dean stumbled into him slightly. It was long and gentle, but purposeful in a silent declaration of matching wills.

Percy met eyes with Carter, and between their shared grin, they silently raised their glasses to one another, and drank.

Dean placed his other hand at Castiel's cheek, and Castiel gripped the sides of Dean's shirt in pleading fists. This time, the energy within this kiss was not the fevered lust that had taken them over before, but a sedated surety that held them motionless save for the pressing of their lips. They embraced each other this way for a long moment, silent and resigned.

Dean's hand brushed against Castiel's cheek, and settled upon his shoulder. Finally, he broke the kiss and glanced to Percy.

"Excuse us," Dean nodded to him and set off with Castiel trailing behind, pulled along by his tie like a leash. He left a glass half-full of whiskey behind.

The other two men left behind met eyes from across the length of the bar. Carter smiled warmly, like a proud father at graduation. Percy winked at him. Carter blinked, and rose from his seat.

* * *

They weaved through the crowd and smoke, stopping amidst the dance floor that obscured them in the cover of flashing lights and throbbing beat. Dean stopped abruptly and turned to Castiel, pulling him into another kiss, this one deeper in its passion.

This time, it was Castiel who pulled back, but not before breathing in the moment long and full.

"Dean," he started, close enough to his face that he could hear. "I don't want you to… do anything you don't want to."

Dean smirked, leaning in to Castiel's ear. "I never do."

Castiel smiled at this, opening his mouth to continue. Whatever he was about to say was silenced by Dean's lips claiming his once more. Dean pressed solidly against him a moment, and Castiel actually could feel it as both their pulses quickened.

"We'll talk about it later," Dean said against his ear after the kiss, the heat of his breath sending a shiver down Castiel's spine. "But for now, what do you say we…"

Dean paused, looking about the dance floor. Castiel followed his gaze, watching the bodies half-naked and covered in paint grinding on one another, the shouts and sweat and laughter of a good time rising above the music. Castiel turned a wide grin on Dean, finishing for him, "Shut up and dance?"

Dean returned the grin, glancing over his shoulder as wails of "whoooo!" erupted at a change in song. He winked at Castiel, rising his voice to meet them in an exaggerated, imitative, "Whoo!"

Castiel 'whoo'ed in return at a much lower pitch, cut off from it when Dean pulled him in by the tie for another kiss.

This one didn't break until long after the song was over.


	14. Chapter 14 - The Dance

The guitar riffs of a familiar song announced the state of the evening.

 _"Closing time  
_ _Open all the doors and let you out into the world  
_ _Closing time  
_ _Turn all of the lights on over every boy and every girl"_

The boys blinked as the atmosphere flipped with the switch of the harsh fluorescents casting an unflattering glare over the sticky floor, grungy bar, and the sweaty, intoxicated occupants, many of which joined in a cry of objection.

Dean's naked arm swooped around Castiel's shoulder, almost taking him down as their bare torsos—bare except for the multi-colored paint streaked across them—collided. Castiel braced Dean with his shoulder, all but holding him up as he laughed with abandon.

"Do we have a tab?" Castiel asked. This threw Dean into another fit of laughter.

"The very fact that you know to ask me that means this night was a success!" he roared. " A total success. Why, did you want another drink?"

 _"Closing time  
_ _One last call for alcohol so finish your whiskey or beer"_

Castiel blinked at him in the bright lights, his eyes red and glossy around the edges from hours of activity and drinking. He was, at least, not drunk anymore.

"No, I'm…quite sated." Castiel hustled Dean up to get a better grip around him, his body feeling weighted and unpredictable.

"I'll satiate you…" Dean slurred. Castiel couldn't suppress a smile as he heaved Dean off the dance floor.

"I'm sure you will," Castiel murmured into his ear, though it was looking more like he'd be happy just to get the man back in one piece.

"Don't you patronize me, Cas," Dean said back, pressing into him.

"Never."

 _"Closing time  
_ _You don't have to go home but you can't stay here"_

Dean chuckled. "Who's the hot mess now?"

"You are."

"That's right." Dean laughed, leaning his head against Castiel's shoulder. "Let's go home."

Home. Castiel knew he didn't mean it— _home_. He was well aware of their similar states of displacement, that the word couldn't hold the same meaning it did for other men who had families, permanent places of residence—for the angels who hadn't rebelled. Still, it spoke of comfort, of warmth, of contentment, and having Dean welcome Castiel into that realm of his was like no other invitation he'd ever received—even in heaven.

 _"I know who I want to take me home  
_ _I know who I want to take me home"_

"Did you have fun?" Dean's voice was suddenly softer as they left the floor and stumbled past the bar, heading to the exit. Castiel stopped before they entered the corridor, turning to him. He smiled into his face, brushing his cheek lightly with his thumb.

"I did."

It was a simple declaration, but the meaning was in his eyes. Dean looked into them, a little hazy with the night, but beneath that, all the depth and absolution of Castiel's mirth reached into Dean and filled him with an odd joy. Dean savored this feeling of satisfaction and returned his smile.

"Me too."

 _"I know who I want to take me home  
_ _Take me home"_

The night was a blur, and in the haze of the drinks and the activity, moments returned to them in snippets, as highlights in time that painted an impressionistic picture that became something both strange and beautiful when viewed from afar.

* * *

 _The beat of the music blared above them, two bodies collided amidst fog and flashing lights._

 _Dean swirled his tongue across Castiel's one more time before closing his mouth against his lips, pressing in a resolute indication of bringing the sustained kiss to an end—or at least, an interlude_. Castiel's chest moved up and down, catching his breath as he looked longingly at the man departing from him. Dean chuckled at his clear reluctance to let him go.

"I'm thinking a beer," Dean said, leaning into Castiel to be heard above the throb of the music. "As long as we've got another hour in the joint, right?"

"If you'd like. I'm—" Castiel scrunched his brow. "—fine."

"Alright." Dean gave Castiel's forearm a squeeze. "I'll be back."

Castiel turned and watched him, halting his feet before they made a motion to follow. He remembered Percy's advice.

 _"You always go after him, right? Like a puppy?"_

His jaw clenched and he resolved to stay put, turning away from where Dean had departed toward the bar.

"I'll just…" he looked around the bodies surrounding him which moved in time to the music, some flailing arms, many grinding on one another, some just bopping back and forth on their feet. "…wait here then."

The disappointment of being left quickly faded to fascination as he watched the different styles of expression around him. People dancing alone pumped their fists in the air, twirled, and stomped. Experimentally, Castiel shifted his feet back and forth on every other down-beat, a sort of slow shuffle to the music. He attempted an awkward kick after a while, smiling at the foreign, thrilling feeling of moving without purpose. He raised and dropped his shoulder a few times, vaguely mimicking someone doing a pop-and-lock. If surviving among humans had taught him one thing, it was imitation without certainty of why was the key to blending in.

* * *

Dean sidled up to the bar, not bothering to sit. He became aware of the goofy grin he was wearing when a familiar bearded man caught his eye down the bar. Carter's face held a similar expression, and his lips moved beneath his beard in conversation with a shorter boy who had his back to Dean.

 _Good for him_ , he thought. _Might have found someone after all._

Beer was Dean's version of easing up. He had one in no time, and turned to go, casting one last glance to the guy he didn't admit he considered a new friend. Carter was engaged in some animated story being told to him by the shorter one.

With a slight start, Dean realized it was the same guy Castiel had been talking to while Carter was lecturing him, and he raised his brows and nodded in acknowledgement and approval when Carter caught his eye. Carter made a gun with his thumb and forefinger, and shot it at Dean with a wink. The thin blonde before him turned curiously to look over his shoulder, and catching sight of Dean, gave two exaggerated thumbs-ups and nodded his head enthusiastically. Feeling mocked, Dean rolled his eyes and grabbed his beer, heading back into the fray.

* * *

On the second circling of the floor, Dean's attention landed on a man with messy dark hair and 5 o'clock shadow who was twirling a blue length of something around his head like a helicopter. Dean blinked to clear his head of what was clearly a hallucination. His slight alarm was quickly replaced with confusion as he realized the object being whirled around was, in fact, a tie.

Dean made a conscious effort not to drop his beer as he approached Castiel cautiously.

"Cas, are you…" Castiel turned to Dean, whirling the tie in the air above his huge grin. "…are you dancing?"

"I—I think so." Castiel slowed the circling motion and dropped his arm a bit, his face falling slightly. He asked, suddenly sheepish. "Am I…doing it wrong?"

Dean burst into laughter. "No, man, you're—" he laughed again "—you're solid."

Castiel seemed emboldened by this, and he raised the height and momentum of his swirling tie, turning in a slow circle as he did.

Dean watched him a moment, amused grin plastered across his face. He bobbed his head lightly to the beat, snapping his fingers with the hand not holding the beer. As the seconds ticked by, he got a little more into it, stepping from side-to-side. When Castiel's turn came full circle, the delight clearly written in his expression at Dean's inclusion seemed to encourage him. Dean's movements amplified, becoming more definitive as he got his arms into the rhythm too.

Castiel's own energy subsided as he became captivated by the man, the blue tie falling to a limp swing at his side.

Dean's endowment as a fighter seemed to translate directly into the musicality of a dancer, and he moved exactly on beat with a combined form of strength and fluidity. He spun on his heels, landing smoothly without spilling a drop of beer.

Over Castiel's shoulder, two familiar faces joined in spectating. Percy whistled low.

"Damn, home-boy's got some moves!"

Dean was pulled out of his absorption into the music, glancing self-consciously at the three on-lookers. They cried in objection at his cessation, goading him on. Dean raised his beer, taking a long swig, and shrugged modestly. He resumed his dance to the cheers of the others, who continued on their own individual versions of grooving. When Dean next raised his eyes, the only one watching him was an angel, whose expression was one of infinite adoration. Dean smiled, relishing the freedom he felt in his contained, but expressive movements.

He always liked dancing, in secret. And damn, he was good at it.

* * *

 _((Author's Note: There is too much fun to be had in one sitting, apparently. We're truly in escapades territory now, so expect the next ones to come in rapid, short bursts for the coming week or so. Thank you again for your continued support! It means the world!))_


	15. Chapter 15 - The Jello

"What is it?" Castiel took the plastic lid off of the small plastic cup, peering at the green, jiggly contents.

"A jello shot!" Percy grinned, popping a blue one open and handing it to Carter. Dean held his warily, eyeballing it with mistrust. Percy opened his own, and ran his pinky around the inside of the cup. "You really have no fun ever, do you?"

"Not usually." Castiel smelled it. Fruity. He mimicked the motion, dislodging the sticky jello from the sides of the plastic.

Percy stuck his pinky in his mouth, drawing it out slowly while holding eye-contact with Carter, who smirked at the display.

"I don't do these very well." Carter said as he held his cup out to Percy. Percy nodded solemnly, willing to take this burden from him.

"I got you, hun." The skinny blonde leaned forward and took painstaking measures to work his tongue around the entirety of it, pulling the blue gooey shot into his mouth and swallowing as Carter held the plastic cup in his hand. Castiel watched intently. Dean's was an expression verging on horror.

"Why thank you," Carter said with overkill courtesy and a grin.

"Oh my pleasure," Percy teased back, throwing his own shot back with less showmanship.

Castiel stared down into his green jello cup and, predictably, held it out to Dean in an offer. Dean looked at the shot being presented to him, and flicked his eyes to Castiel.

"Uh…you have it." Dean turned away and gruffly scraped his own jello shot with his forefinger, throwing it back without ceremony. He grimaced at the mixture of artificial fruit flavor, booze, and wiggly texture down his throat.

Slightly dejected, Castiel pulled his own cup back, taking the most melancholy jello shot anyone had ever seen. He perked up at the sensation of it, evidently reacting opposite to Dean's dismayed impression. Percy nearly doubled over in laughter, and Carter just smirked at Dean and shook his head, who avoided his eye.


	16. Chapter 16 - The Bend

The two moved against each other, lips taking a small hiatus from one another, but still finding an area of neck to nip, or a cheek to nuzzle. Dean had largely acquiesced to the public state of their affection, his only give-away to self-consciousness being an occasional glance over his shoulder before he leaned in to kiss, bite, or rub his face against any part of Castiel's ear, neck, or jaw, which he found himself not taking long gaps of time between each doing. The evening's partaking had stacked up, and much of his pressing into Castiel was for support as much as affection as his balance was more skewed than he had allowed in public for some time.

Castiel breathed deep when he looked at Dean, as if he could drink in these moments and relive them forever. His studious examination of other's dancing styles had been educational, and a light trail of sweat darkened his shirt along his spine from the exertion. He and Dean now fell into a steady, rhythmic stepping side-to-side in each other's arms, a much more gentle method of dancing than they previously had been engaged in, in part because of Dean's precarious bodily control. Castiel closed his eyes, leaning his head against Dean's shoulder, and felt his hand press into his back, pulling him closer. The music seemed to dim behind the steady beat of Dean's heart, which he could practically hear even on the dance floor. Castiel's eyes floated open, and in the pathway of his sight, observed two men in a similar embrace, though their swaying had more... vigor. Castiel's head perked up as he watched them moving together, and the thinner of the two trailed his hand down the other's chest from his face, a motion that had an obvious seductive effect on the larger man. Castiel decided to give it a try, first reaching to the back of Dean's head and then pressing the flat of his palm against his neck, dragging it down across Dean's pulsing heart. Castiel felt Dean's chest rise into his hand with a deep intake of breath.

The other couple undulated together, kissing a brief passionate moment before the smaller man turned around agilely against the larger, pressing his back into him. The man standing behind placed his hands on the other's hips, and Castiel's eyes widened as the man in front dipped at the waist, bending forward far enough to touch the floor. The effect on the larger man was clear as he bit his lip, grinding his hips into the back of the man before him. Castiel's brow furrowed with inspiration to influence Dean's appetite in that manner.

He turned his eyes to Dean, who looked at him expectantly with the sudden change in his demeanor. Castiel pressed his lips into Dean, who hesitated only the briefest of moments before returning the kiss. Before it could escalate, Castiel pulled away, and before Dean could question him, Castiel shifted his feet awkwardly around, turning his back on Dean. He waited to feel his hands on his hips. When he didn't, he took it upon himself to find Dean's hands and place them there, pressing his back into Dean's chest. Dean seemed to respond well to this, continuing the side-to-side movement to the beat and resting his chin on Castiel's shoulder next to his face. Castiel felt the strong hands grip at his sides, and knew it was working.

Castiel took his cue and bent at the waist, rubbing his backside into Dean's crotch as he saw the other couple do. He felt Dean go stiff, in more ways than one, and after a stunned moment of immobilization, Dean had yanked Castiel up straight by the his shoulder and stepped a fraction away from him. Even in drunkenness, his reservation hadn't receded that far.

"Too much." Dean said into his ear from behind, and Castiel wilted slightly. His dismay lasted only a second before he felt Dean's arm wrap firmly around his chest, pulling him close with his shoulder blades pressing into the warmth of Dean's upper body. Dean resumed the rhythmic moving against Castiel's back, who had no choice but to follow his motion with the tight grip around his torso. He shuddered as Dean murmured into the back of his ear, his breath hot as lips grazed the lobe ever so slightly. "This is good."

Castiel agreed, leaning back into the man.


	17. Chapter 17 - The Picture

"Casanova!"

Castiel was pulled out of his idle conversation with Dean at the bar when a thin arm wrapped around his elbow. Percy was bouncing, a fire of excitement in his eyes.

"Come," he commanded, pulling at Castiel's arm. "I want a picture with my new favorite otter!"

Castiel cast a look at Dean, who shrugged and waved for him to leave, smirking as he sipped his beer. Sensing the reluctance, Percy rolled his eyes.

"Fine, bring your boytoy."

Dean blinked at the description, opening his mouth to protest. Percy yanked Castiel away before he could, and Dean leaned casually against the bar a moment longer, taking his time to appear casually aloof before setting off and following the two at a distance who weaved through the crowd.

"Where is your otter?" Castiel asked with some concern. It didn't seem the proper place for such an animal.

Percy laughed that light, airy giggle of his. "You're the otter, Steel."

Castiel blinked. Percy laughed again, never regretful of any interaction with Castiel as long as he got that bewildered look of curiosity and concern.

"So since you're new to all this, I'm not surprised you don't know the terms," Percy wove the two of them deftly around people across the floor. "But you're definitely an otter."

"How am I an… otter?" Castiel asked, somewhat afraid of the answer.

"Well you've got more hair than a twink," Percy gestured to himself, proudly, "But you're not stout or burly enough to be a bear."

Castiel pretended to understand. Dean trailed behind with surprising difficulty in the wake of their path.

"Plus, they're adorable." Percy nudged Castiel playfully. "And so are you."

Castiel had learned to take this as a compliment.

"And…Dean," Castiel looked back over his shoulder, catching sight of the man following with a look of concern for the well-being of his beer. "He's a 'boytoy?'"

"He's _your_ boytoy," Percy giggled, looking back as well. "Nah, he's..." He seemed to think a moment. "He's definitely a broke straight boy, if anything. All masculine and shit."

"He is not broken," Castiel stated, a little defensively.

"Oh, for you he is!"

Sensing he had misunderstood the meaning, Castiel searched in his mind for possible clues. To be 'broke' also meant to be poor, so he ventured assertively, "He has money."

"Ooh, and a sugardaddy to boot!" Percy ribbed him, grinning wide. "You've got it all, dontchya?"

Castiel sighed, relinquishing the conversation as a mysterious impasse.

* * *

Carter was standing by the photo booth when they got there, waiting patiently as if under instruction. Percy's manner was somehow commanding in its spiritedness and it appeared no one felt like contending with him.

Percy pulled Castiel in front of the large rainbow curtain that served as a backdrop, releasing his hold on his arm and bouncing forward to feed dollars into a machine. Dean sidled up next to Carter, hand in his pocket as he sipped his beer. Carter regarded him with a nod. Dean felt oddly small next to him, now that they were standing.

"Looks like you have your hands full," Dean watched Percy animatedly poking buttons on the machine, and looked sideways at Carter. "Sure is an...energetic fellow."

Carter smirked from beneath his beard, returning a glance from the corner of his eye. "I can handle it."

"Yeah," Dean said, taking a long drink. "I'll bet."

The camera was a stand-alone, and a red light began flashing as soon as Percy pushed a final button.

"There's four in a row, so we better make them count," Percy bounced back to Castiel in front of the rainbow flag and draped his arm around his shoulders, grinning huge. Castiel was watching him when the first flash went off. Castiel blinked the blinding stars away.

"Were you smiling?" Percy shoved Castiel out of range of the backdrop, running across it to Carter who he then grabbed by the arm as his next victim, pulling him in front of the rainbow as he tossed over his shoulder to Castiel, "You better have been smiling, you slut!"

"I…did." Castiel lied, uncertainly. He looked to Dean from across the camera's range, who shrugged and sipped his beer.

The red light flashed for ten seconds, during which Percy leapt easily into Carter's arms, who a) seemed to be expecting it and b) had no trouble lifting him as if he weighed nothing. Castiel noted their size difference, and connected the description of what Percy had had called a "bear," looking at Carter's large stature and bushy beard.

The light flashed, and Percy dismounted with the agility of a cat, wasting no time to pull Castiel back into the line of fire. Carter stood behind obediently.

"You too, princess," he said, grabbing Dean by the arm. Dean looked like he might resist, but Percy's eyes were insistent, hurried, and held no wiggle room for dissent. Dean sauntered forward, taking a spot next to Castiel and giving the camera a dry smirk. The four of them stood together awkwardly as the third flash went off. Percy resumed his animated pushing and pulling of people as a ringmaster in a circus, shoving Castiel and Dean to the middle of the backdrop by their shoulders, and lacing fingers with Carter to lead him off.

Dean looked at Castiel standing next to him alone before the rainbow. Castiel returned his look, smiling. Dean looked at the camera and pursed his lips in a half-hearted smile—his only form of protest.

"Say 'queer'!" Percy called from the sidelines.

Dean blinked and his mouth opened, but the blinding light flashed before any sound escaped him. Percy giggled and ran to the machine, bouncing slightly in anticipation.

"5 minutes?!" He groaned, slapping his forehead. Percy huffed, turning an impatient eye on Castiel. "You go on. I'll bring it to you."

Castiel blinked, barely putting together what had just happened. He looked to Dean's backside, who was ambling back to the bar, and took off to catch up.


	18. Chapter 18 - The Stall

Dean sighed at the alleviation of his bladder, swaying slightly in the larger stall of the ones available. He had opted for some privacy as opposed to the trough-style urinal, having felt a little claustrophobic in the swarms of bodies on the dance floor for so long. The reprieve of the noise and activity was a welcomed quiet.

His tranquil relief ceased abruptly at the sound of a clink and a door swinging open behind him.

"What the hell—?!"

Castiel knocked into the stall door, seemingly surprised at the ease in which it had opened. Dean covered himself quickly and turned, staring at the metal fastener on the door.

"Did you just Jedi-mind-trick the lock?"

"It was suggested I come…hold your hair back."

"I'm not puking, Cas, just pissing."

"Oh."

"Well, shut the door if you're coming in," Dean growled.

Castiel did so. Dean turned back to his business, but it appeared he was either bladder shy or finished, the feeling of someone watching him not helping in the least.

In the wake of the awkward silence that followed, Dean zipped his fly with a grunt, surmising his reprieve in solitude had come to an end. He turned to Castiel, startling a bit as the sight of him registered.

"…Where's your shirt?" He asked apprehensively.

"I traded it." Castiel looked down at his bare torso. "They seem to implement an odd bartering system here."

"Traded—?! For what?"

"…Jello shots."

"God, Cas, how many did you have?"

"A tray."

"A tray?!"

"A small one."

"Who traded you a tray of shots to take off your shirt?!"

Castiel glanced down at the floor, as if his confession was a betrayal. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Of course, it was him."

"He said…" Castiel's brow furrowed in an effort to reiterate. " _If you travel to Rome, it is customary to remove your shirt_."

"You know, you should take what that guy says with a grain of salt." Dean squinted. "And also, we're in Ohio."

"They must have similar customs."

Dean slid his hand over his face. "Cas, did he say, _'when in Rome?'_ "

"That was the phrase, yes." A slight slur still dotted his speech, but whether or not it was affected, even Castiel wasn't sure.

Dean turned and pulled the handle to flush. In the roar of the swirling bowl, the two men looked at one another. Dean noticed Castiel's attention was on his chest, and a question seemed barely contained behind his eyes.

"No, Cas, I'm keeping mine on." Dean approached him, reaching behind him to the door. "I might be drunk, but I'm still modest."

Castiel moved to the wall-side of the stall to let him pass. "Wasn't it you that once said…'we should be even?'"

"Well yeah, but that's in the privacy of a motel room. I'm not going to prance around shirtless and get covered in paint. I'm not _that_ drunk."

Dean paused at the door, his hand on the metal.

"But, if you wanted to try and take it from me," Dean murmured, eyes on the handle. "I wouldn't put up much of a fight."

Instead of pulling the door open, Dean slid closed the lock.

Castiel glanced at the motion, and looked into Dean's eyes with a troubled expression. "I would not undress you against your will, Dean."

Dean approached him slowly, his voice a dare. "Oh yeah?"

Castiel tipped his head inquiringly, the answer to his puzzlement being his back slamming into the wall as Dean pushed him against it. It knocked the wind out of him, leaving him voiceless.

Dean brought his face into Castiel's, speaking low, a dangerous look in his eye. "You'll just tease me all night until I go nuts, huh?"

"Tease you?" Castiel blinked, holding onto the railing behind him for support. "I don't believe I've—"

"Don't give me that innocent angel act." Dean cupped his chin roughly between his calloused fingers. "I know better, and I think you know exactly what you're doing to me."

Dean held his eyes on him as he pinned Castiel to the wall with one hand and his other went to work, unfastening the belt of his slacks.

"And it's about time you payed for it."

Dean deftly worked open the button of Castiel's pants, sliding his hand down as he connected his lips to the angel's exposed neck. Castiel closed his eyes, stifling a gasp.

"Dean—"

"Shut up."

And with that, Dean's hand was around him, the sudden sensation of it throwing blinding stars across Castiel's sight. His mouth opened soundlessly as Dean bit into the soft flesh beneath his jaw. Castiel braced himself against the metal railing behind him with one hand, and gripped at Dean's back with the other as Dean pumped him, his whole body rocking into him with ravenous strength.

"You think you're in control here?" Dean's hoarse growl came hot on Castiel's neck through barely parted lips. "You think you can overpower me?"

Castiel attempted to digest his words, to make sense of them. A quiet, rational part of him insisted on comparing the capability of his angelic power against Dean's human strength when a wet tongue slid up to the tender lobe of his left ear, nibbling and pulling it between teeth that sent a spark of pain mixed with pleasure down Castiel's spine. Dean worked his hand ferociously up and down, drawing out a subdued whimper as the only reply from the angel.

"That's what I thought." Dean's hand reached lower, cupping and kneading the soft flesh there below Castiel's erection, which sent a whole new warmth surging through the pit of his groin. He was suddenly helpless, a whimpering pile of jelly in the literal palm of Dean's hand. He grabbed onto him to steady himself as he both feared and surrendered to his weakness beneath Dean's powerful hands.

Dean trailed his mouth over his bare skin as he worked him, everything from kissing to swirling his tongue to gentle nibbles and full-on bites. As his teeth sunk into the angel's naked shoulder, the shudder he felt wrack Castiel against his body spurred him into a new voracity, and he let a deep moan escape him as he shamelessly ground his own firmness into Castiel's thigh with a fevered hunger. Castiel's head tipped back against the wall, and beneath closed lids he sensed the blinding light of pleasure at Dean's grip, his fingertips digging into the shoulder blades that moved against him in rhythmic pumps. He gripped the white shirt into fists, and with a fluid tug it was over Dean's torso and cast aside without another thought. The brief interruption was enough to spur Castiel into almost begging grasps at Dean's naked shoulders, urging him to continue. He did. Dean's other hand wandered the length of Castiel's side, thumb rolling over the bone of his hip, and up over his chest as the other tugged and rubbed and drew firmly up and down the length of the hardness that protruded from Castiel's undone slacks.

"Dean, it's—" Castiel bit his lip, having realized the meaning of the building sensation of heat in the pit of his stomach over the last few encounters. And, accordingly, surmised that a warning was customary.

"Please, do." Dean's plea was a burning rasp against his throat, his grasp tightening as he pulsed and rocked into the angel against the wall.

Castiel's mouth opened soundlessly, then pursed as tight as his eyebrows were drawn together in the flushed exhales leaving his chest in heaving pants. His blood pumped furiously as ecstasy rolled over him in waves undulating with the heat of the man riding against his leg, pulling at him with fervor. Castiel bit his lip. Dean nuzzled against his chest, a gesture so gentle in its fondness against the avid friction of the rest of his body.

And like a dying sun, a burst of fists on the metal door fractured the moment. Waves of pleasure splintered off in protest, cracking and giving way to alarm and remorse as Dean's body first retracted, followed by his hand. Castiel would have objected if he felt capable of movement, of sound, of thought in the ruin of his exhaust. He was utterly disabled, and fought to keep upright by gripping onto the railing behind him, face flushed and breath rattling as someone knocked hard on the stall door.

"Break it up in there! Some of us have to piss."

"Fuck off!"

Castiel blinked at Dean, who was quick to curse but rarely expressed such vehemence in the presence of not-actual-danger. Castiel cracked a smile despite the ache of unfinished business that verged on pain, and Dean turned his glare on him, which softened immediately. Somehow, Castiel was less upset than he was, a fact that broke Dean's features contorted with tension into an almost-bashful grin.

"Give us a minute!" The fire was subdued in Dean, who inexplicably could barely keep a laugh down as his voice came out raspy.

"You've been in there for ten, c'mon!"

Dean rolled his eyes and turned, halting abruptly as his eyes landed on the toilet. His shoulders sank. There, his white shirt hung half-limply off the bowl, the other half dipping in the pool of toilet water. Dean frowned, looked down at his bare chest, and then accusingly at Castiel who shrugged innocently as he buckled his own pants. Dean sighed, abandoning the shirt and throwing open the door.

"What, is this the only stall you can use—?!" Dean grumbled, falling silent as he looked out into the bathroom.

The guy had a sailor's hat on which he glared up from beneath, mustache twitching sardonically as he wheeled backwards to give them enough room to exit.

"Yeah." He said, without humor.

Without a word, Dean scooted out of the stall. Castiel followed sheepishly, scooting awkwardly around the guy the wheelchair, who jeered bitterly as they passed.

"We're—I apologize." Castiel muttered. The guy wheeled in with an eye roll, slamming the stall door behind him.

* * *

Dean grimaced at Castiel outside the bathroom, covering his bare chest unsuccessfully with his arms.

"I feel so exposed."

"I feel…" Castiel stared at the ground, brows furrowed.

Dean clapped him on the back.

"It's called blueballs, my friend." He smiled sympathetically, looking Castiel up and down. "It sucks."

Castiel pursed his lips, looking down.

"It does."

Dean laughed lightly, seeming to have a quick debate in his head as he teetered on his feet. Castiel could almost hear his inner "screw it" as he reached forward, lacing fingers with Castiel, and pulling him back into the flurry and chaos of the club.

"C'mon, well get your mind off of it." Dean threw a wink back at him, stumbling slightly. "For now."

Castiel smiled, subtly using the back of his hand to shift his pants to a more comfortable position.


	19. Chapter 19 - The Paint

"Whoo, you guys are conspicuously bare!"

Dean dropped Castiel's hand at the attention from the approaching man, already self-conscious now that he lacked a shirt. The tattoo on his chest had already gathered a few curious glances, and despite the hazy wobble to the world imbued to him from the booze, he wasn't lying when he said he was modest.

"Yeah, what's it to you?" Dean crossed his arms as if it would conceal his bare chest. He flushed deeper when the man laughed at him. Castiel seemed nonplussed regarding his state of half-undress, having not yet learned the human condition of shame by nudity.

"Just figured you were ready for your first coat, is all," he held up a brush that dripped in pink glowing paint. "Now that you seem to be in the spirit of things."

Dean realized he was talking about their lack of paint, not clothing, and suddenly recognized him as the man who first approached them when they entered the club, covered in glow-in-the-dark streaks and offering the same decoration to others. Dean squinted.

"They pay you for this? What'dya, get commission or something?"

The guy laughed, shaking his head, "Hell no, man, I don't work here!" He shrugged while he chuckled, dabbing the brush at Castiel and dotting his left peck with pink. Castiel blinked down at it, examining the glob with a dab of his finger.

Dean's mouth formed the shape of 'w,' his question being the motivation for such an endeavor.

The guy with the paint stuck a thumb over his shoulder. "Look, if you want, you can have at it yourselves. The station's over there."

Dean followed his pointing finger to a corner of the floor covered in tarp, with a table set up and all sorts of containers and tools strewn across it. Three shirtless people were engaged in a sort of back-painting circle. He had passed the area numerous times but the purpose of it never quite registered, whether by inattention or sheer force of will.

"It's just way more fun for someone else to do it," the guy continued as he floated the brush in a teasing manner toward Castiel—who seemed less opposed to the idea. Castiel allowed him to dot three spots of pink down the side of his arm as he said with a wink, "At least _he_ thinks so."

"We're good, thanks," Dean gently pushed the brush away from Castiel, almost politely.

"Well, _you_ might be," Ignoring Dean, he turned the handle-side of the brush to Castiel, who slowly reached out and took it. He dispensed the bucket of pink into Castiel's other hand as Dean looked warily on. "But this guy knows how to have fun."

And with that, he turned, sliding by the table and plucking a new set of color and tools as he sought his next target.

"The things people get off to…" Dean shook his head as his eyes followed the guy. He then looked to Castiel as he curiously dipped the end of the brush into the paint, watching it drip in glowing globs. Castiel glanced at his own arm, brushing a light trail across his forearm. It was cool against his skin, and glowed beneath the blacklight. He looked to Dean.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"We're Romans."

"That's not—" Dean sighed, but found himself unable to contain a chuckle. He shook his head helplessly, and acquiesced. "That's right. We're Romans. And you want to go play in the paint."

Taking his smile as an acceptance, Castiel slapped the paintbrush across Dean's chest, splashing a streak of pink across his heart. Startled, Dean jumped back, snatching the brush from him with an agility quickly dismantled by a stumble.

"Hey!" He pointed the colored end accusingly at Castiel, regaining his balance. "Not _pink_."

Dean swiped unsuccessfully at Castiel with the brush, who narrowly avoided its wet graze as he backed toward the tarped corner. Dean narrowed his eyes dangerously as he followed his steps, but the corner of his lip twitched as it threatened a smile.

"Oh, I see how it is."

And like kids on a playground, it was a frenzied race as Castiel reached the table first, and grown men wielded brushes tipped in glowing color as weapons, attempting to tag one another. They slung streaks of paint across each other and innocent bystanders, who were nothing but charmed by the activity, as most inhabitants of the area were already well-covered in color that had long since dried.

Castiel's chest was dotted and slashed in glowing green, and Dean was all but covered in blue. Each had a few streaks of various other colors from a third party who had run-by-assault-style flicked patters of paint over them—apparently a normal occurrence in this corner of the strange little world in which anyone was a free target.

Amidst the raucous affair, Dean's foot slipped on a conspicuous glob of green, which took him down onto the slick tarp. His face contorted in surprise and pain as he lifted his hands in surrender to the angel that approached menacingly with a blue-laden brush, coming to stand over him as Dean sat drenched in color on the floor.

"Truce! Truce…" Dean called, wincing and bringing his hand to his hip where it had collided with the hard surface. Even a hunter dulled by alcohol was subdued by the takedown. Sensing his pain, Castiel immediately bent down to him.

"Dean," He kneeled before the man in concern, dripping blue weapon still clutched in his hand. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, just…" Dean chuckled, making a motion to rise. He grimaced, plopping back on his rear to the floor. He blinked, as if realizing for the first time, "Just...drunk."

"I'm not surprised." Castiel looked him over, smiling gently.

"Aren't you?" Dean looked up at Castiel crouching over him.

He blinked, assessing his body's faculties. The state of his intoxication was a subject that had increasingly slipped his mind as the night wore on, and he surmised the effects of the alcohol had long but left him almost entirely.

As he kneeled before Dean, he looked into the glossy green eyes, and dared not tell the truth lest the night be brought to a premature end. He was, after all, having fun.

"Totally." Castiel dragged the word out, squinting in an effort to support his deceit.

Dean was far gone enough to buy it, or at least not press the issue.

Before Dean could question, Castiel dabbed his fingers against the liquid blue dripping from his brush, raising it to the man's face. Dean instinctively closed his eyes, effectively distracted from his momentary injury, and Castiel painted a thick line from his temple down his cheek to his jaw. He reloaded and covered the other side of Dean's forehead, over his eye, his cheek, and down his neck a bit. Dean smiled as the paint cooled his face, the sensation diverting his attention from the minor pain at his side from the tumble. Truth be told, he enjoyed this strange, intimate touch from Castiel as he painted his face.

When the strokes stopped, he opened his eyes to a grinning Castiel. He could feel most of his face chilled with the moist, blue glow that covered it.

"Like that movie you like," Castiel said, a hint of pride beneath his smile as he studied his work.

Dean squinted questioningly, picturing what his face might look like, mostly coated in blue on either side. Castiel looked into his eyes, his own clear blue ones bearing a stark intensity.

" _They'll never take…_ " Castiel paused, then yelled low in his throat, " _Our freedom_!"

Dean burst into laughter, clapping Castiel by the wrist, who braced against him in return as they both rose to stand.

"Aw, man," Dean chuckled, grazing his blue-clad face with his knuckles. "That's awesome."

Castiel grinned wide, having made a suitable reference for once. He turned, relinquishing his paintbrush weapon to the table. Dean watched his back as his own laughter subsided, coming up behind the angel and putting a halting hand to his shoulder before he turned around. Obediently, Castiel stayed with his back to Dean, only turning his head to glance back inquiringly.

"My turn," Dean dipped his finger into a white bucket on the table, and set to work on Castiel's back, drawing slow long lines along his shoulder blades, flicking short, feathered brushes at his sides, and trailing fingertips down to the small of his back. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he bit them in concentration as he worked to expand his painting over the bare flesh. He was by no means an artist, but his idea was simple and the form of his canvas was inspiring. Castiel responded to the cooling touch of Dean's light strokes by closing his eyes, his head drooping slightly in bliss as the gentle gliding of his fingers tingled pleasurably across his back.

"There." Dean said after he was satisfied, having taken more time than his initial inclination to really fill in the design. He blinked as if coming to, having felt momentarily lost in the project and the gratification of tracing his fingers across Castiel's naked skin.

Castiel attempted to twist his head to look over his shoulders momentarily, then simply smiled at Dean with amusement. He didn't need to see them to know Dean had painted two glorious, white glowing wings flowing from his shoulder blades.

"There you guys are!"

They both turned at the approaching fae-like man, whose energy seemed boundless as he tossed a tie that once belonged to Castiel around the angel's neck. Percy then slipped up behind Dean, who was slow to react to the odd sensation of a hand slipping into his hip pocket as Percy stood on tip-toes, speaking lowly into his ear.

"I think you'll appreciate this," his hand was retracted as soon as Dean registered the discomfort of the closeness, and faltered to the side to create distance. Percy giggled, winking at Castiel. "Consider it a gift."

Dean reached into the pocket Percy had slipped into, feeling a slick, flat strip of paper tucked there.

"Looks like you guys got into a paint fight!"

Castiel smiled, looking down at his glowing-paint-covered body. "A little."

"A lot!"

Their conversation faded from Dean's attention as he pulled the object from his pocket, his expression softening as he examined the article. It was a succession of four photos in a vertical line, the first one with a bewildered Castiel and grinning Percy. The second was just Carter and Percy, and the third was the four of them together, each face holding a separate statement. Dean stared, his absorption in the strip held intently on the fourth photo in the series.

* * *

 _"Closing time  
_ _Time for you to go out to the places you will be from  
_ _Closing time  
_ _This room won't be open till your brothers or your sisters come"_

Dean had one arm draped around Castiel's shoulders as they paused in front of the corridor, his gaze fixated once again on the bottom of the photo strip. When the flash went off, Dean's attention had been directed past the camera, mouth open slightly—mid-snark, no doubt. It wasn't his own face that drew his eye into the scene, but the expression on the other's face. Castiel's lips played a smile so subtle, a stranger might miss it. His eyes were directed to Dean, soft but keen in a look that spoke of admiration so blatant, Dean felt his cheeks flush when he looked at it. How often did Castiel look at him that way? And did anyone else ever see it? He couldn't imagine it would slip anyone's notice—how could it? And to see it so infinitely apparent in this captured moment—but how, then, had it always alluded his own perception?

 _"So gather up your jackets, move it to the exits  
_ _I hope you have found a friend  
_ _Closing time  
_ _Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end"_

"You guys coming with us?"

Dean slipped the images back into his pocket as both he and Castiel turned to Percy—who was several feet taller riding upon Carter's back piggy-back style.

Carter smiled that easy smile at them both and offered, "My complex has a hot tub on the rooftop they tend not to lock up at night."

Dean and Castiel exchanged a look. Carter smirked at their non-verbal correspondence. Percy rolled his eyes.

"Gross!" Percy jabbed, circling his arms around Carter's neck. "Get a room already!"

Dean snickered and hung his head, breaking their gaze. Castiel smiled, shifting Dean's hanging weight around his shoulders to better support him. Dean's state of…relax was answer enough.

"I think it's best if we get going." Castiel avoided use of that not-quite-accurate word, but knew wherever the Impala resided was Dean's version of home. The other two understood his meaning.

"Your loss," Percy said with a wink. Carter smiled, nodding in farewell as his eyes suggested he was quite alright with that outcome. They turned, heading into the corridor which was now well-lit to aid the flow of sweaty, paint-covered, stumbling people corralling toward the exit.

Dean turned his eyes to Castiel, "You okay to drive?"

Castiel nodded certainly, "I've been fully capable of transporting us for some time."

Dean blinked. "For how long?!"

Castiel pursed his lips thoughtfully. "A while…"

Dean smirked as Castiel tightened his grip around his waist.

"Let's go home, then."

 _"I know who I want to take me home  
_ _I know who I want to take me home"_

Percy gasped, halting the movement of the one carrying him.

"Oh shit, I forgot to get their numbers!" Carter obediently turned around to head back with his charge in tow.

They looked down the passageway out toward the bar, but saw no trace of Dean or Castiel.

 _"I know who I want to take me home  
_ _Take me home"_


	20. Chapter 20 - The Backseat

_(( Author's Note: Thank you, my faithful followers and reviewers! I realize a rating change may be overdue, so here it is anyway. M! for My, my, my…what fun we have. Enjoy, and know there will be more to come. ))_

* * *

Pale blue iridescence bloomed as a backdrop to the ashen clouds floating in the misty haze of morning, the chirping soliloquy of a singular bird alerting the mesas of Nevada that night was waning.

It perched atop a thin wire, singing greetings to the impending sun that had yet to show its face from below the horizon and calling out for a companion to join its celebration of morning. It, alone, serenaded in the wake of darkness fading into azure skies. It, alone, felt the disturbance of atoms shifting in space. It, alone, flitted away with a cry as the void opened. It did not stay to see the two figures appear in the parking lot of a dingy motel in the fading morning light, sloppy with exhaustion in the crisp air that cooled against their paint-streaked, bare skin.

Composure escaped him as the sensation of the floor beneath Dean's feet ripping away sent his equilibrium into further turmoil, flirting with the alcohol that dulled his senses and sending him careening into Castiel, who only managed to stay upright as his paint-covered back met the cold, hard curves of the Impala door. Dean groaned as he slackened against Castiel's body, pinning him to the side of the car as he rested his flushed forehead against the other's bare shoulder. Castiel attempted to lift him upright, but Dean's sluggish weight proved cumbersome.

"Not the smoothest trip," Dean mumbled, keeping his head down. Much of the blue that had covered his face had been removed in a sink after the sweat from dancing mixed with it and dripped into his eye, but a few smears and flecks still clung to the edges of his features. Castiel scrunched his brows in concern, ceasing the struggle to stand him up straight and conceding to the task of simply holding him around the middle as they both leaned into the Impala.

"It has never been your preferred method of travel," Castiel cast a pitying look into Dean's face. The tie around his neck caught between their bodies, and Castiel tugged it free to keep from choking. It was the only garment adorning either of them from the waist up, looped lazily around his collar. "We should sit you down."

Dean's head lolled to the side, and he chuckled weakly.

"I'll be fine." He took a deep, steadying breath, pushing himself up with both hands off the car. Dean stood there a moment of his own accord, and then wavered, prompting Castiel to raise a steadying hand and catch him before he faltered to the side. He chuckled slightly, hanging his head. "Y'know, I usually don't get this…" He trailed off.

Castiel nodded in understanding. "We were…having fun."

"Yes we were," Dean slurred, grinning as he side-stepped unsteadily. "And honestly, I'm surprised I'm not blacked out or passed out right now, considering I might have set a record for myself."

"Well…" Castiel looked him over, contemplating.

"Well, what?"

"The transference of a human to another location, it…tends to purify your body. Slightly." Castiel scrutinized Dean, who rocked back and forth on his feet.

"Purify?" Dean blinked at him, gripping Castiel's forearm for support.

"Only slightly. The use of angelic power for relocation leaves a trace of—"

"You mean to tell me you've been stealing my buzz all night?" Dean's mouth hung open slightly.

"A little. Incidentally." Castiel gave him a sideways smile. "Though not enough to rid your system of the effects."

"Yeah, no kidding." Dean grinned, faltering again on his shook his head, chuckling. "You and your jello shots. I haven't been this… in…"

Castiel caught him again by the shoulder as he stumbled.

"Let's get you inside," Castiel began to press against Dean, herding him toward the motel door labeled '34,' but Dean's hand on his arm was surprisingly solid as he spoke.

"No," Dean glanced at the door warily, "I don't want to wake up Sam."

Castiel followed his gaze to the door. A struggle played out across his eyes as he sought an answer to this dilemma in Dean's features. The two of them met eyes suddenly as they arrived simultaneously to the same thought, looking in unison over Castiel's shoulder to the slick black machine that had steadied the commotion of their arrival.

"You stay here," Castiel commanded in a gentle tone, relinquishing his body as the pad between Dean and the car. Dean leaned against the cool metal for support, splaying his palms out flat over the slick black top affectionately.

A flutter, and Castiel was gone. In an instant, the back door of the Impala swayed open.

Dean stepped unsteadily around the door, grasping the edge of it for support. Castiel swung a leg out onto the ground from inside the car.

"Let me help you," Castiel made a motion to climb out as Dean stumbled into his way, but he never got the chance to rise. Instead, he stifled a grunt as Dean bumbled head-first into the backseat, crashing into Castiel and landing on top of him, pinning his body flat against the vinyl seat. A crumpling and clanking sound accompanied the fall.

"Whoops," Dean grumbled, attempting to push himself up. Castiel's features contorted in discomfort as he reached an arm behind his back, grabbing and pulling a brown paper bag from underneath himself. Dean's eyes widened at it as he peeked in.

"Hey!" he lit up excitedly, seeing the two bottles of whiskey that had been left behind. "Something to keep this party going!"

"I think…" Castiel pulled the bag away as Dean reached for it, "We've both had enough."

Dean looked to Castiel's face, studying it with his bloodshot eyes. "But you're not even drunk."

Castiel nodded, raising slightly to place the bag of booze in the front seat out of Dean's reach. At Dean's pursed lips, Castiel's brows drew together.

"I do not wish to be drunk anymore."

Dean's glazed eyes fell, followed by his head which he plopped on the angel's bare chest. Both their feet dangled, intwined, out of the open car door.

"C'mon, Cas…"

Castiel squinted at him. He only asked, "Why?"

Dean mumbled into Castiel's skin through heavy lips, "…It makes it easier."

"Makes what easier?" Castiel asked, looking to the light brown hair at the top of Dean's head, which rested on his chest just below his chin. He asked, but he knew.

Castiel swallowed, glancing to his own hands that hovered uncertainly in the air, as if afraid to connect with Dean's naked back in the silence that followed. He felt suddenly very self-conscious in the wake of sobriety—and flushed as he thought of the bold ease with which he had become so physically intimate with Dean in the drowsy nebula of drunkenness. Perhaps Dean was right—the alcohol made it easier to act on that animal desire that radiated beneath the surface whenever he was around. And Dean had made it clear that his own state of mind required a certain level of alteration to initiate physicality with Castiel.

Dean didn't answer.

Slowly, Castiel lowered his arms to rest his palms gently against the man's skin, embracing him as the weight of Dean's body pressed into his own, lengthened across the backseat. Castiel spoke softly into Dean's hair.

"I do not require intoxication to engage with you physically, Dean."

Castiel's forehead drew a crease as Dean remained motionless and silent. For a moment he thought perhaps the man had succumbed to sleep, when Dean shifted, his hip rolling pointedly between Castiel's thighs.

"I can tell," Dean muttered. Castiel swallowed, flushing as he realized Dean's meaning.

His eyes widened as Dean ground his hip into him again, eliciting that stark reaction of animal desire and rational fright thereof that ravaged Castiel at this particular kind of attention from the man. He shifted beneath him, disturbing the comfortable pillow Dean had made of him.

"You're doing that on purpose." Castiel's statement was half a question, incredulous. How this man managed to find the energy in his current state baffled him.

Dean's reply was a smirk which Castiel didn't see, but felt.

"You like it."

Castiel pursed his lips, and didn't argue.

Dean rolled his body against Castiel's once more, this time with more force, and Castiel's lips parted slightly. He noticed his fingertips were curled in, creating small divots in the skin at Dean's back where they were placed.

"Dean." It was halting.

Heavily, Dean lifted himself, coming face-to-face with Castiel, who stared into him.

"Cas." It was pleading.

And he lurched forward, pressing his lips against Castiel's which pushed the back of his head into the vinyl seat. Dean's hand trailed up the bare skin of Castiel's side and chest, stroking up the paint-streaked neck to his hair and back down again. His body shifted between Castiel's legs, and he crawled up slightly to match the length of his body above Castiel, who pulled his knees up on either side of Dean to cradle him as his hand made a sharp motion toward their feet. With a thud, the car door slammed shut, enclosing them in a space rapidly filling with heat in the cool morning air.

Their kiss was fevered as Dean wasted no time plunging his tongue deep between Castiel's barely parted lips, which opened in surprised. Castiel tasted the remnants of alcohol on his breath, and attempted to kiss him back with equal fervor, but felt a tug of uneasiness at the hurried manner in which Dean moved against him. Castiel drew a deep breath through his nose, fighting his own body's carnal urge as he pressed his hands into Dean's hips, begging them to slow their grinding that sought to overtake the anxious thoughts plaguing him. Dean resisted, working himself into Castiel's crotch with force, kissing him with passion verging on sloppiness. Castiel finally caught Dean's bottom lip between his teeth, biting down hard enough to stun him into pulling away. The look in his eye was wild with agitation, and for a moment Castiel felt a flash of fear for something he couldn't quite name.

"What the hell?"

"Dean."

The name was a request. An interruption that threatened more words. Dean heard it, but refused.

Dean's attacked Castiel's mouth and kept the words from falling out, moving slightly to the side as he reached down, rubbing at the area between Castiel's legs. Castiel pursed his lips and stifled a moan, clutching at his resolve. He grasped the hand pressing against him below by the wrist, attempting to pull it away. Deftly, the hand turned on him, and in one swift motion Castiel's arm was pinned above his head, pressed into the inside of the car door by Dean's grip.

"Cas," Dean called against his mouth, working the buckle of his slacks undone with his free hand. He pressed their cheeks together, murmuring into his ear. "You know I want you."

Castiel swallowed, heart racing as he looked up to the ceiling of the Impala in a silent prayer for strength.

To Castiel, their shared moments of intimacy were an expression of something much deeper, but now, beneath a man drugged with alcohol, the familiar stench of intoxication wafting through the stifled air of the car, a fleeting fear shot though Castiel. That his desire to make love to Dean in his own right mind was his alone, and that the slur of alcohol across Dean's consciousness was the only manner in which Dean felt compelled to desire him. Before, all that mattered were the sensations flooding over him. But now, he felt a longing for something else…

"I know," Castiel muttered back, struggling to form the words. "But not like this."

Dean paused, his forehead against Castiel's shoulder as he bent over him. He looked down to his hand which gripped the edge of the angel's slacks, running his thumb over the metal clasp in hesitation.

"It's always like this." His voice came as a whisper, and he resumed his task, opening the button of Castiel's pants.

"I know, and—" Castiel's free hand trailed gently down Dean's back, a soothing motion that felt out of place amidst the heat of the moment. It made Dean shudder. "You should get some rest."

"Screw rest." Dean's grip tightened around Castiel's wrist above their heads as he fumbled below. "I want you."

The declaration caught Castiel in the throat. The unrest in Dean's eyes as they met his stirred his stomach to churning, in equal parts anticipation and unease.

"And you want me." Dean spoke as if he pulled the truth right out of Castiel's eyes. His hand ripped the front of Castiel's slacks open, and releasing the wrist pinned above his head, he yanked either side of the pants down. Castiel sprung free and in an instant Dean's open mouth was on him, wet and warm as Dean engulfed the tip of him between his lips. Castiel moaned, his head falling back against the seat weakly as he succumbed to the sensations shooting like lightning through his body.

Castiel drew one hand to Dean's head and stroked his hair, placing the other on his shoulder and pushing at him with frailty. Despite the bliss of Dean's mouth and lips and tongue swirling and engulfing him in white hot pleasure, the thoughts tore at the back of his mind, fighting to rob him of the contentment of the act. He desired him now to the point of aching, but couldn't help but feel this progression was somehow advantageous for himself at Dean's detriment, considering his particular state of intoxication. Especially if Dean was opposed to the experiences they shared once he sobered up. Which he always seemed to be.

His heart sunk as he imagined the regret he was to face in Dean's eyes when the sun rose.

Dean dipped his head, taking more of Castiel into his mouth, ignoring the hand pressing feebly against his shoulder, his eyes closed as he tasted, felt, savored him. Castiel pressed his lips together, unable to stifle another groan escaping from deep in his throat, as the constant tease of the night rendered him more sensitive than ever before. He looked down, his lips parting slightly as the sight of Dean's determined features working him over nearly sent him over the edge.

Castiel licked his lips, eyes not focusing as they turned back up to the roof of the car in anguish. "You shouldn't."

Dean pulled his lips up long and slow, freeing Castiel momentarily from their soft arrest.

"I want to." It was almost a demand as he spoke, eyes turned down as he licked up the length of him in one long stroke. Then, softer, "I'm telling you, it's okay."

Castiel swallowed, aching with reluctance and desire. He opened his mouth but nothing came forth.

A hesitation.

His breath was warm against his flesh as Dean whispered, "I'm yours."

The words felt like a breath of fresh air after having been locked in a tomb for years. Like a drop of water in the desert. Like a—

Castiel blinked, wishing to search Dean's face, but his expression was turned away as he descended upon his shaft once again, hand gripping tightly at the base as his other rested gently on Castiel's bare hip, thumb rolling rhythmically over the bone protruding there.

"You wouldn't say that if—" Castiel swallowed, digging his fingertips slightly into Dean's shoulder. His quickened heartbeat begged him to accept it as truth, but he had learned by now that intoxication drew falsehood from men's lips, and he dared not trust them. He fought the lustful rhapsody that boiled his blood and quickened his breath, threatening to drown him in ecstasy. "…if you were—"

"But I'm not, and I am…" Dean paused above Castiel, taking a moment to lick along the curve of his thigh, and biting the skin there gently, once. He clarified, "…saying it now."

"No, Dean." He didn't allow himself to accept it. To do so would be foolish.

"Please, Cas." He raised those green, glossy eyes to the angel, the urgency thick behind them. He held Castiel's erection in a firm grip, stroking along the bottom of it with his thumb. "This is how I want it."

Castiel's heart leapt in his throat.

"Not now." Castiel forced himself to say, turning his head to avoid those imploring eyes. He could think marginally clearer without them boring into him, and without the sensation of Dean pleasuring him robbing him of all other thoughts.

"I won't later." Dean's slurred speech held a mournful tone. Decidedly, he pushed himself up on his arms, crawling up to hover above Castiel's body. Castiel looked up into his face as Dean undid his own jeans and grasped Castiel by the hand, pulling it toward himself. "Only like this."

Castiel went rigid as Dean shoved his hand into the front of his own pants, closing Castiel's fingers around himself. The words sank into his chest with a heavy grief. Castiel held his breath as he grasped Dean, unable to move but unwilling to let go.

"You were right." Dean spoke softly, his murmur breathy as his eyes closed at Castiel's touch. Dean clasped his fingers around Castiel's, causing him to draw his hand slowly up and down his hardness as he rocked his hips lightly into the grip. "I'm a coward. So it has to be now."

Castiel licked his lips, brow knitted in contradictory impulses. He hated that statement, and a pang of guilt washed over him for have putting the notion in his head in the first place. Dean released Castiel's hand and arched his back, dropping his forehead to Castiel's shoulder as he rutted against his palm. Castiel stroked him gently and Dean moaned into him, thrusting in even, slow measures. After a moment Castiel's motion slowed, then stopped, and finally released as he pulled his hand from Dean's jeans, speaking quietly, "No."

"Why not?" Dean's voice was hushed in its plea as he grasped weakly to reclaim Castiel's hand, who pulled it away and brought it up to stroke the prickled jaw of Dean's face.

"Because, you're…" Castiel looked into the melancholy eyes that stared back at him, his own sorrowful in an attempt to make him understand.

Since the first night, when Dean had prayed to him, Castiel had felt…different around the man. That ravenous night perplexed him beyond comprehension, and plunged him into sensations both physical and emotional that he had never come close to experiencing before. He came to know the signs, the circumstances in which Dean was willing to engage and especially initiate intimate encounters with him, but tonight was the first in which they acknowledged in the slightest what was happening.

Castiel found himself longing for confirmation that he was not just a drunken regret to Dean. He couldn't bear another day spent seeking eyes that avoided his in shame, that caused a wretched stab of pain when Dean lashed out in denial.

Dean stared back into the blue eyes, shaking his head sluggishly. His eyelids were beginning to droop from the effort of fighting intoxication and the activity of the night mixed together in a cocktail of exhaustion. He had gotten so caught up in the evening and allowed himself to be sloppy, but it was unlike Castiel to refuse him, even in a state of utter drunkenness, which was his typical status when the mood struck him to beckon Castiel in such manner.

He pawed feebly at Castiel's crotch twice. Castiel reached to his hand and drew it away.

Dean wanted so many things at once, he hovered motionless over Castiel's prone body, closing his eyes and pressing his lips together. He tried to ignore the burn of rejection, but knew at its core the wounded plea behind Castiel's eyes was his own affliction upon the angel. He tried to ignore the guilt. Ignore his misdeed that he knew exactly what he was doing. That he would deny in the light of day.

In his motionlessness, fatigue crept over him with debilitating swiftness.

Dean's brow creased imperceptibly as his sluggish thoughts drifted in the soft blue light filtering into the backseat windows. A red heat crept up his neck with the idea he had gone too far, and that Castiel would begrudge him flinging himself so adamantly at the angel. He felt a pang of shame, having never before forced himself upon an unwilling participant.

"I'm…" His head dropped to Castiel's chest, forehead meeting first and then cheek as it lolled to the side. He was so many things, but couldn't bring himself to say what he was the most.

Sorry.

He yanked feebly at Castiel's pants, half-pulling them up to covered his unfinished business. It was all the stamina Dean had left as his body slackened, collapsing onto the angel who grunted beneath the sudden dispense of weight.

Castiel sighed imperceptibly with the struggle being over, the pulsing incompletion below mocking his choice as he looked down to the man. One hand came to rest on Dean's bare back, the other rising to stroke the back of his head as he murmured, "I'm sorry."

Dean grumbled a short complaining moan, lips barely moving as his eyes closed.

"You suck."

Castiel's lip quirked up, and he sighed, aching from his decision but relieved and comfortable beneath the warm heat of Dean's pressing body. "I know."

Dean released his will to struggle against Castiel's resolve, coming to relax fully upon the prone angel, whose knees straddled him on either side. Some quiet, dim part of him hoped this moment would be lost to his memory upon waking, and knew the embarrassment he would suffer if it wasn't. The other part of him relished the comfort he felt in the angel's arms.

Castiel tucked his chin, barely able to see the curve of Dean's cheek over his hair. One of Castiel's hands rested upon the man's back, and the other hesitated before landing at the side of his face, fingertips grazing the edge of his temples back to the short, light brown hair of his scalp. Dean murmured softly at the touch, and Castiel stared at him as he made the sound. These sort of tender, comforting gestures were not part of their routine, but they felt right, though he wasn't sure if they had a desired effect. He glanced to his hand, tracing his fingers across the back of Dean's head to the top. He was rewarded no sound, his only map to Dean's pleasure. He ran his fingers through the longer hair at the top, and experimented with a very light gripping of the hair there. No sound, but Dean's eyebrow twitched slightly. Castiel pursed his lips, feeling foolish, and dropped his hand to the smooth vinyl seat, staring out the window.

Dean's eye peeked open and his head shifted upwards toward Castiel very slightly.

Castiel looked down, inquiring softly after a moment, "Yes?"

Dean drew a long breath, his voice drifting lowly between heavy lips, "Why'd you stop?"

Castiel paused uncertainly. "I didn't know if—you—"

Dean closed his eyes, nuzzling his face to rest in a more comfortable spot on top of Castiel's chest.

"I do," he mumbled softly.

Castiel's mouth twitched, and he allowed his hand to stroke across Dean's hair, who sighed contentedly at the motion. His body had been sluggish with intoxication, but Castiel sensed a new type of relaxation as his fingers roamed over the man's scalp, up the back of his neck, and across his forehead. He was rewarded with a light murmur every once in a while, and Dean would arch his head into his palm occasionally. Just as he thought perhaps Dean had fallen asleep, the man spoke quietly, eyes remaining closed.

"This paint better not stain my seats."

Castiel's lip quirked up at the statement, and he patted Dean reassuringly on the back.

"I'm sure it'll be fine."

If nothing else, stained seats were not beyond Castiel's abilities to mend. Dean's lips barely opened as he mumbled, "Damn well better be."

Castiel continued tracing his fingers over Dean, enjoying the smooth valleys of his spine, the subtle curve of his shoulder blades beneath the flakes of dried paint. The hum of his body aching for a more aggressive affection was waning beneath the stillness, and a comforting warmth of a different nature settled about them. Dean gave one last sigh of contentment and fell silent, convincing Castiel in the growing light that he had finally succumbed to his exhaustion. After several minutes, the deep grumble of Dean's voice proved otherwise.

"Cas?"

Castiel continued the rhythmic tracing of his fingers. "Yes, Dean?"

"I meant it." Dean's words were scarcely audible as they droned out lowly with his exhale. He idly wondered if Castiel could feel the heat rising to his cheeks. "What I said."

Castiel tipped his head slightly, puzzled. "When?"

"Before."

His eyebrows scrunched, but before he could request clarification, Dean intoned softly.

"I'm… your…"

Castiel's chest stopped mid-rise as he practically held his breath. He waited. Dean was silent. A strange desperation for Dean to finish that sentence flushed in Castiel's face, but he squelched the urge to shake the man awake and bid him continue. He simply tilted his head forward, bringing his lips gently to the top of the man's head, and pressed. Dean inhaled long, sighing out the rest as if speaking beneath the weight of sleep.

"You're my angel."

Castiel breathed deep the scent of his hair, lips keeping contact with the softness at Dean's scalp as he replied softly, "Yes."

"And I'm…" Dean breathed in again, the rise and fall of his chest becoming increasingly rhythmic. His lips were parted but barely moved. "…your…"

"Yes." Castiel smiled into his hair, bringing both arms to encircle the man's bare arms and back in an embrace. He felt Dean nestle his face against his chest, returning the fond sentiment of the press. "You're my human."

"Mm," was Dean's only reply as he melted into Castiel's arms, allowing the suspension of consciousness to overtake him as he drifted into the realm of slumber.

Castiel felt the light within him grow with the luminescence of the world as the brilliant waves of day bloomed across the cerulean sky, the soft warmth of the man entwined in his embrace imbuing him with the essence of what it is to dream.


	21. Chapter 21 - The Bed

Phone, check.

Wallet, check.

Motel room key, check.

Music,

Sam slipped a bud into each of his ears, scrolling his thumb across his phone and finding the perfect thumping beat to get him going.

Check.

He cast one wary glance to the bed that remained unoccupied—as it had all night—and sighed, opening the pea-green motel door. Birds chirped in the crisp morning air, sun climbing steadily as it hung over the horizon. Sam took a deep breath, stepping back to stretch each of his calves. He rolled his shoulder, and took off in a jog.

He passed the Impala and froze with his back to it, not ten steps into his morning run. Sam blinked and attempted to understand what he thought he saw. Eyebrows drawing together, he stepped backwards in measured steps and peered into the backseat window, perplexed.

Dean lay sprawled across the vinyl seat, face down, shirtless, covered in streaks of color. He was drooling, and he was alone. Sam shook his head and took out his earphones, knocking his knuckles against the window pane. Dean awoke with a start, and within a second he was pressed up to a seated position in a sluggish, drugged movement. His eyes darted around with urgency, for what Sam had no idea.

"Dean?" Sam's mouth hung open incredulously as Dean swung open the car door, taking in the sight of him. "What the hell?"

"Mm…" Dean shook his head and rubbed at his face, blinking bleary eyes that squinted in the light. "Uh…Mornin', Sammy."

" _Mornin'?_ " Sam's features wrinkled as the stale scent of sweat and booze wafted out of the car in his direction. He exhaled a short, dry laugh. "I don't even know where to begin. Were you here all night?"

Dean ran his hands over his face and through his hair. "Definitely not. I just, uh…"

"Did you…" Sam looked over Dean's body painted with blue, green, yellow, even pink. "…get into a fight with some clowns?"

Dean shot a look up at him, placing a steadying hand on the edge of the door. "Got a little sidetracked, is all."

"Yeah well, hope she was worth it." Sam smirked. "You smell like a bar floor."

"Mind your business." Dean slurred as he braced and pulled himself from out of the car, taking a shaky step to the side and then closing the door behind him.

"I was kind of worried when you didn't come back." Sam's features held a hint of concern, to which Dean said nothing, but avoided his eye. Sam grimaced and attempted to leave the judgement out of his tone. "You still drunk?"

"A little. What of it?"

"Okay, man, well…" Sam shrugged and stuck one of the earpieces back in. "I'm going on a run. You uh, want me to pick you up something?"

"Nah, I'm good." Dean shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to blink the crusted sleep from his eyes. "You got my pie?"

"Yeah. I got your pie." Sam laughed breathily. Dean nodded, and Sam watched his brother's eyebrows draw together slightly, eyes unfocused toward the ground as his mind seemed to go somewhere else. "Hey, you uh…sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine, Sammy." Dean swiped his palm over his face again. His voice took on that sarcastic, abrasive tone. "You go have a real… _good time_ on your run."

"You must be hurting. Even your insults suck."

"Shut up."

Dean meandered toward the hotel room door, and paused not three steps later.

"Hey," Sam reached in his pocket, pulling a key attached to a tag out. "This might help."

Dean turned, catching the key in one hand. He nodded to Sam, who gave him a half-smile and took off.

Dean glanced to the slick black car, then swept his eyes briefly over the parking lot before sliding the key into the lock.

* * *

The ugly floral duvet welcomed him like an old reliable friend he never expected to miss. He groaned as he sank into the not-so-soft pad of the mattress, dismissing the thought of climbing beneath the covers or even removing his jeans. His stomach churned uncomfortably, and he silently cursed the grim reflection of blue jello wiggling in a plastic cup. The slick shine of it shifted and became eyes, staring intently in a dark corridor. Dean swallowed, shoving the thought away. His mouth was dry.

He was surprised when sleep didn't immediately reclaim him, and he grumbled to himself as he pushed up on all fours, crawling off the bed.

 _"I'm a coward. So it has to be now."_

It wasn't until the water from the tap overflowed onto his fingers that he realized he was staring into the sink, motionless. The cool water felt good against his flushed skin, and he splashed a bit on his face, frowning at himself in the mirror when he noticed the flecks of blue still clinging to some edges of his features. He found a bottle of painkiller and took more than the recommended dose, knowing he'd be thankful later.

 _"You're…my…"_

His hands raked into his hair, and he turned back to the bed. Through his drowsiness, his eyes widened as an object placed upon the floral pattern jolted his attention for the first time. He reached to it, cradling the slick, beige fabric of Castiel's trench-coat in his hands. Dean stared at it, flushing as he realized Sam must have seen it, and drew his hand back to throw it into the corner. He stopped, arm poised mid-cock. Dean looked to the trench-coat and lowered it slowly as if it weighed a great deal.

 _"You're my human."_

Pursing his lips, Dean didn't take his eyes off the garment as he stepped to the small dining table, folding the coat neatly over the back of the chair. He rested a hand on it there for a moment, then slipped back to the bed, his fingertips trailing along the fabric before departing from it.

Dean closed his eyes after collapsing on the bed, willing his mind to slip back into the thick murk of drunk sleep. He breathed deep, begging unconsciousness to take him. To squelch the passing memories of the night. To snuff out the nagging echo of his own words. His stomach gurgled and his head was beginning to throb. The air hung thick in the stagnant motel room, the faint memory of fingers brushing across the curves of his back washing vaguely over him, the last of his thoughts drifting into blackness, the last sensation he felt being a faint sense of longing as he slipped into a heavy slumber without dreams.


	22. Chapter 22 - The Light

Light filtered in through the breaks in the blinds, casting yellow stripes across the room and the motionless figure face-down on the bed. His brow furrowed as the creak of a door stirred him from his drowsy slumber, and one eye opened to see his brother stepping gingerly into the room.

"Don't worry," Sam said softly, aware of the delicate state his brother was enduring, "Just hitting the shower then I'll be at the library."

"Hnngh," Dean moaned, closing his eye. Sam looked him up and down, still shirtless and color-streaked on top of the comforter, a mix of pity and chiding playing across his features.

"You need anything?" Sam asked.

His answer was a grunted, "More sleep."

Sam shook his head. Dean didn't see it, and slumped back into unconsciousness before the sound of running water even reached his awareness.

* * *

 _Everywhere he turns—trees. Pine trees. The pad of the needles softens his steps as Dean runs. His eyes dart frantically around._

 _He stops. Through a clearing, he can see the metal arch of a bridge in the distance. A figure stands perched at the precipice, facing away from him. Beige._

 _Dean calls out to him, his voice echoing the name in the trees that shake in response. Are they laughing?_

 _Dean feels the ground beneath him shift and swallow his feet. He is sinking. He looks down to see red all around him. It's gooey and warm, and he reaches down to grab a chunk of the substance his body is slowly descending into._

 _Pie._

 _He takes a bite, and spits as something both sharp and soft crunches between his teeth. A black feather wafts to the ground, sticking in the crusted cherry goo._

 _Dean's mouth forms the shape of a name, but no sound escapes his lips._

 _He slumps down, relinquishing his struggle against the mess now engulfing his waist._

 _A hand around his chest, and he's lifted to salvation, pulled from the muck._

 _Dean rises high over the pine trees._

 _He closes his eyes, breathing in the wind. When he opens them and turns his face up, he sees the angel, soaring in the sky with an expression of serenity. Dean grasps onto him, a sudden chill wracking him as he expects to be let go. Dropped to the ground to certain death._

 _Castiel meets his eye, and smiles. His grip tightens around Dean._

* * *

Disturbed by a rustling, the heavy lids retreated into sockets, the blur of the world coming slowly into focus. A full glass of water sat on the side-table, and Dean's desire for it moved his muscles for the first time in two hours. His eyes were fixated on his goal as he pushed up on his arms, reaching for the glass as he spoke to the figure on the other side of the room.

"Thought you were going to the library," Dean grasped the water in a hand that quivered slightly, bringing it to his lips and drinking with his full attention on the quenching relief.

"Why would I go there?"

Dean spat some of the water back into the cup, surprised that the voice did not belong to his brother. He jerked his head toward the figure standing still in the corner of the room. Castiel had a paper cup in one hand, and a brown paper bag in the other. He looked concerned at Dean's reaction to his presence.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, you just," Dean swallowed, turning himself to a sitting position. He turned to rest his shoulders against the headboard, tilting his head back against it as his eyes closed, "…surprised me. I thought you were Sam."

"Ah." Castiel shifted on his feet. Dean opened an eye that turned his direction, and Castiel stepped forward, as if remembering his purpose. "I brought you breakfast."

Dean's other eye opened and he lifted his head, blinking. "Oh yeah?"

Castiel nodded and moved toward him, placing the bag and cup of what Dean could smell was coffee on the edge of the side-table next to him. He then backed up several paces, slowly, as if to not startle a wild animal. Dean watched his cautious movement, then reached over, peering into the bag.

Burger. Fries.

"I hope it's adequate," Castiel spoke softly.

Dean smiled, "Breakfast of champions."

He dug into the bag, shoving a few fries greedily into his mouth. He hadn't realized until that moment how hungry he was. Castiel watched him, smiling at Dean's pleased grunts as he went to work on the food.

"Thanks, man," Dean mumbled with a mouthful. He glanced at Castiel, looking him up and down. "I'm surprised they let you in like that."

Castiel looked down at his bare torso, still streaked with color, as Dean's was. He pursed his lips. It hadn't occurred to him to clean himself up, but some of the more peculiar looks he received on his errand suddenly made sense.

"I did not go in." Castiel smiled, trying to hide his pride at having accomplished a human feat like ordering food. Luckily, Dean had sent him to the bar with cash for drinks the night before, much of which Castiel still had crumpled in his pockets. Dean seemed confused, so he clarified, "I went through the _drive-through_."

Dean exhaled a short laugh, imagining the faces of the workers as Castiel stood outside a fast-food window, "Well, you did good."

The greasy food on his stomach was like manna from heaven. The only sound for several moments was the crinkle of the bag as Dean's hand ventured for fries, and a muted smack of him devouring the meal. He glanced self-consciously to Castiel, who seemed content to watch him enjoy the food.

"Well," Dean swallowed, pausing between bites, "pull up a chair if you're staying."

Castiel blinked, surmising that was close enough to an invitation. He obeyed, crossing to the dining table and, turning one of the chairs around, settled stiffly into it. He busied himself with wandering his eyes around the room, sensing Dean's discomfort at being watched.

Dean's voice had a soft strain to it as he attempted to inquire casually, "So this is where you jetted off to…?"

Castiel studied him, noticing the intense attention he suddenly gave the burger in his hands. He heard as if an echo in the back of his head, the real question. _Why did you leave?_

Castiel swallowed, remembering the fulfillment of holding the man in his arms as he dozed heavily, his hands never ceasing their fluid wandering across his skin, lest Dean emit a disgruntled groan of objection. Castiel was content beneath Dean's heavy warmth in the backseat of the car, breathing with the rhythmic inhale and exhale of Dean's sleep. Castiel wondered if he dreamed when Dean twitched, and marveled at the speed in which the sun seemed to rise in the length of their embrace. He was staring out the window when a figure passed by, and his recognition of Sam jarred him from his hypnotic serenity, knowing the sight must have registered in the brother's peripheral vision. He was coming back. Castiel's lips pursed, and reluctantly he pulled himself into the void, leaving Dean alone to have need of explaining only half of the story to his brother.

He couldn't surmise if he had done the right thing.

"I had," Castiel paused, mind racing as he fought to decide between the truth, "other matters to attend to."

He saw Dean's eyebrows raise by millimeters, a muscle in his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

"Ah," was all Dean said about it, flat. Castiel's gaze drifted down. "Well your coat's hanging on the other chair, there. If you wanted to get some clothes on."

Castiel turned his head, seeing his beige trench coat folded over the back of the seat.

"Just figured you wouldn't want to walk around all day like that," Dean studied the burger, saying into it as he brought it to his mouth, "Not that it doesn't work for you."

"I suppose my appearance is rather odd for…general circumstances." Castiel replied without inflection, pulling the tan fabric from the chair. He stood up. Dean's eyes flicked to the angel as he fought to keep his expression neutral.

 _Not that it doesn't work for you. Not that it doesn't—stupid. Stupid._

Castiel paused, eyes fixated on the garment as if in thought. A feeling creeped up the back of his neck, an odd sensation that a door was closing. Dean cleared his throat.

"You can…borrow a shirt if you want." Dean smirked as Castiel met his eye. "You walk around naked under a coat, someone might think you're a flasher."

Castiel nodded, surmising a 'flasher' was not something he wanted to be. Dean finished the last of the burger, shoving a final fry into his mouth and crumpling the bag into a wad as he slid off the bed. He tossed the remains into the trash next to the empty bottles, crossing to the closet.

His FBI outfit hung crisp and pressed in the motel room armoire, two plain white dress shirts next to it. He glanced over his more casual pieces, and a brief visual of Castiel in one of his plaid flannel shirts popped into his mind. He smirked, _look like a true Winchester_. Dean suddenly blushed, shoving the thought aside and grabbing one of the white shirts.

Dean shut the closet door and turned, tossing the dress shirt to Castiel, who caught it. He began working open the buttons. Luckily, they wore roughly the same size. Dean watched him, a strange sense of reluctance and urgency struggling in his gut. His eyes wandered over Castiel's shoulders, chest, face still streaked with different colors.

"Don't you want to get cleaned up a little first?" Dean heard himself say too quickly. Castiel paused, shirt in hand, and looked down at himself. Dean gestured casually over his shoulder with a thumb to the bathroom. "You could use the—"

Castiel raised a hand to his own chest, pausing as he glanced over his shoulder, and like magic the streaks of paint faded from existence, leaving his torso bare and clean.

"Oh." Dean blinked, faint traces of amazement and disappointment circling each other. "Well, that works too."

Dean retreated to the bed and dropped heavily on the edge. His hand raised to a temple where he pressed, grimacing. Castiel watched him, trying to make sense of the feeling he did something wrong as he climbed into the white shirt.

"Do you need more sleep?" He asked. "I could leave you—"

"No," Dean cleared his throat, passing a hand over his face. "No…I've had enough. Maybe could use a little hair of that dog, though."

Castiel's head quirked to the side as he squinted. "Is that a spell?"

"A cure, yes. A spell, no." Dean chuckled despite the pain. "Just a little booze after a wild night sometimes helps."

Castiel nodded as he buttoned up the shirt, that persistent feeling of retreat increasing with each clasp.

"Do you want me to go get it?"

"Nah, you've done enough," Dean made a motion to rise, "I got it."

"Stay."

Dean stopped, and Castiel was out the door, leaving no room for arguing. Dean ran his hands through his hair, cursing the throbbing of his head that steadily increased with his waking.

When Castiel passed the unopened bottle of whiskey to him, Dean popped the lid off his coffee, taking a few sips to create room before pouring just a little into the paper cup. He held the bottle out to Castiel.

"You want some?"

"No," Castiel pursed his lips at the bottle, adding, "Thank you."

Dean took a deep breath before bringing the cup to his lips. "Not even a little hungover, are you?"

Castiel shook his head, "All the alcohol's effects have expired."

"Lucky you," Dean gave a wry chuckle. A silence settled between them as Dean drank the coffee, and they both avoided each other's eye. Castiel lifted his coat from the back of the chair, swinging it around his shoulders. A wave of nausea passed over Dean and he closed his eyes, breathing deep to help it pass. He took another sip of coffee and sighed, "Man, last night got…a little out of hand, huh?"

"You were extremely intoxicated," Castiel said flatly, climbing into the trench coat.

"Yeah, well that was the plan," Dean couldn't help but grin at the memory as he held the cup to his lips. "Mission accomplished, and all that."

Castiel smiled too, relaxing in the relief that Dean found humor in the situation. "I had fun, as you wished."

"Yeah, who knew angels could dance?"

They both laughed as Castiel looked humbly down at his shoes. Dean couldn't help but think it was kind of endearing the way a powerful angel could be reduced to bashfulness. Castiel stuck a hand in his pants pocket, feeling the tie he had folded there. He considered putting it around his neck and completing his ensemble, but that insistent feeling of the closing door returned at the thought, and he kept it in his pocket.

"Dean," Castiel started. His expression fell serious, and he realized the sinking in his gut was the retreat of their familiarity—that the more he dressed, the further they stepped back from addressing what had happened. Castiel forced the words out, his voice gruff in apology, "About in the car. The reason—"

"Listen, Cas," Dean interrupted, a sudden hard edge to his voice as he straightened his posture. "We don't have to talk about that."

Castiel met his eye, but Dean tore his away, taking a gulp of his coffee.

"In fact, let's not," Dean said resolutely. He slid back against the headboard, turning his face away from Castiel. "We can pretend none of it happened."

Castiel's brow furrowed and he swallowed, sensing that cold distance stretching out between them.

 _None of it?_

Castiel's throat tightened, confusion washing over him at what triggered Dean's withdrawal from him. He recalled Dean's hoarse whisper in his ear, his begging grasps of the night before, and swallowed. Castiel had denied him in his most fervent desire, and perhaps Dean's shame rendered him closed off, hostile towards references of his solicitation. But Dean permitted broaching the subject of the evening, as long as it didn't touch on the intimacy they shared.

 _But,_ ** _none_** _of it?_

Castiel felt lost amidst the mixed signals. He sensed embarrassment radiating off of Dean, and only wished to repair it, to cast it away. Castiel gave up the guesswork, and simply asked, willing to do whatever it took. Even if it meant more pretending. Denying.

"Is that what you want, Dean?"

Dean's gaze slid to the angel, features rigid. He took in the downturned corners of Castiel's mouth, the eyebrows raised in question above large, blue orbs. Dean's own expression softened and he looked down.

"I don't know what I want, Cas." The admittance held fatigue and a softness as Dean set aside the cup and ran both hands over his face, "I'm not one-hundred percent—or even like sixty percent right now."

Dean sighed heavily, holding both palms over either of his eyes. The darkness this provided was soothing and he mumbled, "I can't think with my head pounding."

He reached to the side-table where the bottle of painkiller resided, not seeing the pitying look with which Castiel watched him.

"Would you like for me to…help?"

Dean paused, throwing a watchful eye his way. "You can do that?"

"Yes."

"Hell," Dean sighed with a tired shrug, "Couldn't hurt."

"I won't hurt you." Castiel crossed the room and stepped to the side of the bed. Dean felt a settling in his chest as the statement seemed to hold more gravity than its more obvious meaning.

"Alright." Dean scooted over slightly to make room for Castiel, who paused at the invitation before lowering himself on the edge of the bed, half-facing Dean. "What do I do?"

"Just relax," Castiel breathed, low in his throat. He leaned in and stretched two fingers toward Dean's forehead, who instinctively closed his eyes. The connection of fingertips to his skin radiated warmth that spread over the entirety of his scull, penetrating deep into the vertebrae at the base of his neck. The throbbing pulse of blood through his brain lessened with each pump of his heart, and he found himself taking deep breaths as both a warming and cooling sensation circulated through his muscles, a light tingling webbing out from Castiel's touch. Castiel's fingers glided up to Dean's scalp, and his fingers ventured into his hair, sliding until his palm connected with the crown of his head. The induction of his power had waned, but he had seen Dean do this several times that morning, and deduced it was a soothing gesture. Dean's eyes opened slowly as Castiel's hand slid through his hair, down the side of his face, thumb stroking over the folds of his ear as his fingers reached his neck. Castiel was watching his own hand's movement, and started slightly as he met eyes with Dean, who was watching him.

Dean swallowed and Castiel's hand pulled back, slowly, trailing softly along the curve of his jaw. Neither blinked.

"Cas…" Dean exhaled, but nothing followed. He didn't know where to start. The soothing numbness of Castiel's power settled like a blanket over his mind, ridding him of the misery of his hangover, but heat of a different nature lingered on his face where Castiel's touch had traced. He desired it so strongly that the instinct urging him to reclaim Castiel's hand was the very thing holding him back, and he flushed at the severity of his want.

 _"But not like this."_

The memories of the night before sleep had taken him were not lost, and though his stomach turned over, it wasn't regret of his actions that creeped over him. It was the urge to complete them, to make a move. But Dean was frozen, the stark glare of day casting his desires in a fearful light. Fear of what? A part of him reasoned to grab the bottle, force the inhibitions away, take what he wanted.

 _Coward._

Dean cleared his throat, breaking their eye contact. No, he knew Castiel deserved better.

"We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to." Castiel's voice was gentle, reassuring, as if reading his mind.

"Just…not now." Dean acquitted softly as he looked down. "Give me some time, okay? I'm not fully—…"

Castiel nodded in understanding. "Whatever it is you need, Dean."

They looked at one another, and Dean marveled at the forgiveness he found behind Castiel's eyes. He felt lighter.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better. Great, actually," He said lightly, shoving his other thoughts aside. Dean rolled his shoulders and tilted his head side to side, crackling his neck. He sighed, the corner of his lip turning up in amazement at his new condition. From the breakfast to the coffee to the angelic healing powers, he felt like a new man. He smirked at Castiel and attempted a playful pushing of his knuckles into his shoulder, "You're like my own little Margaret Houlihan."

The gesture was stilted, and immediately after Dean folded his hands awkwardly in his lap. Castiel tipped his head at the unfamiliar moniker.

"Who?"

"Nurse 'Hot Lips'?" Dean questioned, "M*A*S*H?"

"I don't understand what you're saying." Castiel's brow furrowed, then opened suddenly. He looked straight at Dean and blinked. "Are you coming on to me?"

"What? No!" Dean shifted slightly away from him instinctively, "I— It's a _show_."

"Because subtlety eludes me and you are much less direct than when you are drunk."

Dean's face burned in this outright candidness and his mouth opened, his thoughts moving faster than his words could keep up with.

"I mean, well…" He shifted again on the bed, awkwardly fumbling, "I might be. But—I don't know."

Dean just looked away, huffing. Castiel smiled gently in understanding, feeling for some strange reason that this was as close as he's gotten to Dean all morning.

"It's okay, Dean. I know you have difficulty expressing your sexual desires."

"Yeah." Dean folded his arms across his chest as his face burned, licking his bottom lip. "And you sure don't make it easy on a guy."

Castiel blinked, the question of the accusation written clearly in his expression.

"I mean," Dean shifted slightly, avoiding his gaze. "Would it kill ya to loosen up a bit?"

Castiel took a breath, pursing his lips. He wanted to argue that _he_ wasn't the one making this interaction difficult, for once, but acquiesced. "I'll try."

Castiel set a hand back on the comforter, leaning back to a slouching position. One shoulder drooped, and he tipped his head to the side lazily. Dean watched him, blinking.

"Is that you trying?"

Castiel sat back up, clasping his hands in his lap as he turned away from Dean. "…Yes." His shoulders slumped. "I'm not—I don't know how to—"

"It's fine." The hard edge was gone from Dean's voice. "You're fine, Cas. Don't worry about it."

Castiel's brow furrowed. He hated failure, but how could he give Dean what he wanted when Dean won't tell him what he wanted? And when he does, it changes, depending on… on…

A hand settled gently against his arm, and Castiel looked into Dean, who was smiling with amusement, kindly. Castiel returned the smile, and felt himself relax. _Oh…_

Castiel's eyes flicked to Dean's mouth and back to his eyes. Dean's tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, but neither moved. Dean swallowed, swinging his legs over the other side of the bed in a sudden motion. Castiel felt his chest fall at Dean's retreat.

"Well, _I_ could really use a shower," he said, his back to Castiel. He tossed over his shoulder, "I can't just…whisk it away like you."

"I could also take care of that," Castiel turned over his own shoulder, looking Dean up and down.

"What, you mean you could help me get my back?" Dean's lip curved into a smirk as he raised a brow.

A distressed crease appeared in Castiel's forehead. "Do you require assistance to bathe?" He was concerned that he had not entirely removed the pain inflicted upon Dean by his hangover, if he was still weak enough to require help in simple matters.

"No I—" Dean sighed, frowning. "Nevermind. It was a joke."

"Oh." Castiel squinted, a nagging feeling that he missed something tugging at him.

"But thanks for the offer." Dean scratched his head, standing. "There's really no substitute for a hot shower, though. Feels good, y'know?"

Castiel blinked. "I don't."

"You've never showered before?" The amazement in his voice seemed exaggerated to Dean.

"I have no need to. My grace keeps me clean."

"Right." Dean looked about the room, as if searching for something. "Not even just for fun, or…?"

"Why would I…" Castiel tried to imagine a circumstance in which he hopped into a shower for _fun_. The only time he did anything for _fun_ was when Dean was involved, showing him how to engage in such—

Castiel froze, his mouth drawing a flat line.

 _Oh._

Castiel attempted to follow Dean's trail of breadcrumbs, treading lightly in this new, delicate territory in the stark light of day in which they were both in their right minds. Their own convoluted, surreptitious minds that wound like a hedge maze compared to the raw, blatant transparency of drunkenness.

"But…" Castiel said cautiously, eyeing the man. "You say the sensation is pleasurable?"

"Yeah. You could…try for yourself." Dean shrugged nonchalantly. "For shits and giggles."

Castiel nodded slowly. "I could do that. Just to see."

"After me, or—Hell, we could even do it summer-camp style."

Castiel squinted.

"It is February."

"I just mean," Dean glanced at the ceiling, ignoring the fact he never went to summer camp. "Whip each other with towels and…save water. Or whatever."

Castiel's mind raced. Dean spoke like a puzzle when he wanted to say something, only half of his words usually holding the key to his meaning. Castiel pondered the whipping part, and his brow furrowed. He had no basis to continue that particular avenue of conversation. He latched onto the second part and said tentatively, "Water is…important to humans."

"Yeah, and hippies are always—" Dean shoved his hands in his pockets, looking down as he paused awkwardly. "…Y'know, the environment and stuff."

"We should save water," Castiel said resolutely.

Castiel's eyes were penetrating as they stared into Dean, who finally met them. They held their gaze, the unspoken offer stretching like a trapeze wire between their eyes as they both seemed to hold their breath.

Dean attempted to keep his casual tone, but the intent of his words imbued them with a strain that came out just above a murmur.

"So...if you wanted, you could…"

Castiel nodded, sparing him the effort of spelling it out. "That sounds like a good idea."

"Alright then." Dean nodded in return, backing away from Castiel toward the bathroom door. "I'll just, uh…get the water going. Gimme a minute."

Dean turned and grabbed a small travel bag off the counter on his way in, disappearing into the bathroom. Castiel let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, counting down from sixty seconds as a nervous flutter tingled in his stomach.

49\. 48. 47. 46. 45…


	23. Chapter 23 - The Shower

Dean slid the bathroom door behind him, not fully closing it. He unzipped the small black travel bag, pulling out his toothbrush and turning on the faucet. He watched his hand quiver slightly as he dispensed a glob of paste onto the brush.

 _C'mon, man,_ he chided himself inwardly. _It's not like you've never done this before._

But he knew this time was different. Not just different from every other partner he'd had before, but different from any other time with Castiel. This time, he had made a choice. A sober choice. And it had been accepted. His stomach turned.

 _Cool your jets._ Dean spat the toothpaste into the sink, wiping his mouth. _It's just a shower._

Still, his heart skipped a beat and he made eye contact with himself in the mirror as he leaned over the sink. The streaks of color cracked and flaked off his chest, and beneath a swipe of blue over his left shoulder he saw the red, slightly raised mark of a hand burned into his skin. Dean swallowed.

The water pattered into the bottom of the tub, squeaking as the pipes warmed. Jeans fell to the ground, followed by the soft plop of two socks. Dean placed the travel bag on the back of the toilet and shoved the pile of clothes into the corner next to his underwear from the night before, and he marveled briefly at how quickly he had forgotten about going commando. Amazing, the things you get used to in an evening's time.

He tested the water with a hand and, finding it still chilled, stepped in anyway. The cool water against his skin shot a spark through his veins that made him feel immediately awake and alert, shocking his system as goosebumps ran over his whole body. He closed his eyes and breathed deep as the water slowly warmed, the patter of the droplets on his chest soothing as he waited.

Thirty seconds passed.

He expected to hear the door open, or feel the curtain move aside. When neither happened, Dean just stared at the shower wall in front of him as the spray ran over the front of his torso.

 _Maybe he thought better of it._ Dean braced himself against a sinking feeling. He curved a finger around the plastic shower curtain, drawing it back slightly as he peeked out to the door. It was still shut but a crack.

"Cas?" he called just under his breath.

"I'm here, Dean."

Dean nearly lost his footing as the voice came from behind him. He turned abruptly, reaching out to steady himself against the shower wall.

"Dammit, Cas! You could've—" He looked him up and down, instinctively crossing his arms over himself. Castiel was still fully clothed in the shower as water splashed onto the bottom of his slacks and trench coat, the spray washing over his shoes. Dean blocked the stream with his shoulders, keeping it from soaking him further. "You're supposed to—Your clothes."

Castiel looked down, blinking. His pants were becoming increasingly wet at the bottom seam. He ran his eyes over Dean's naked body, to which Dean turned away awkwardly.

"I see."

Castiel drew back the curtain and exited the shower. Dean stood rigid in the corner, and let out a sigh, leaning against the shower wall. Not how he imagined it going, but far from what he knew he should expect from the clueless angel. He chuckled to himself, shaking his head.

"You could have warned a guy," Dean called out. "Instead of zapping in."

"My apologies." Castiel was working the belt of his slacks undone, and stepped out once they fell to the floor. "I'm unfamiliar with…the protocol."

He heard Dean laugh, "Clearly."

Castiel's trench coat hung over the bathroom door by the collar. He began unbuttoning his—Dean's—shirt, then decided to save time by pulling it over his head. Castiel laid the garments neatly over the sink.

Dean's back was facing Castiel as he climbed back into the tub. He turned his head to look over his shoulder.

"Better?" Castiel asked, pulling the curtain closed behind him.

Dean surveyed him a moment, eyes running down the length of his body. He swallowed and said softly, "Yeah. Better."

The two stood there a moment, beholding one another. With a light clearing of his throat, Dean turned into the stream, grabbing hold of the bar of soap off the ledge and running it across his chest and arms. The paint pooled together with the suds and water and ran in colored streaks down his body, swirling into the drain.

"At least this stuff comes off easy," Dean worked at a streak slashed across the underside of his arm. Castiel stood motionless on the other side of the tub, watching intently. After a moment, Dean cast him a look over his shoulder. He rolled his eyes as he held the bar of soap out to the still figure.

"Here," he said as Castiel took it. Dean resumed lathering his chest and neck. "At least pretend, would ya?"

Castiel glanced to the bar of soap and lifted his arm, dutifully scrubbing it along his armpit in a stiff motion. Dean couldn't help but smirk.

"You're doing great."

Castiel smiled, going to work on his other side with more confidence.

Dean turned back toward the faucet, dipping his head beneath the spray and closing his eyes as the water poured over his face. He rubbed at his face and neck, reaching habitually to the 2-in-1 and working a lather into his hair. His motion slowed momentarily as he felt a hand at his back, Castiel's fingertips gliding in a circle over his shoulder blades.

"I'm helping you _get your back_ ," he explained.

"Thanks," Dean smiled with amusement, rinsing the suds from his hair and face. Castiel's hands pressed firmly into his spine, following down the length of it and returning to his shoulders to rub soapy fingers across the skin of his back. Dean exhaled deeply, his head drooping into the water as he relaxed into the touch. Sensing a positive reaction, Castiel brought his other hand to Dean's side, trailing the bar of soap from his ribs down to Dean's hip. Dean felt his temperature rise, and inwardly knew the water wasn't to blame. He bit his lip as Castiel's emboldened touch traced along the muscles of his shoulders, down to the small of his back where they hesitated before moving back up. He rubbed a final few circles with his palms across the middle of Dean's back and retreated a step, letting his hands fall as he was satisfied with the clean state of Dean's skin.

Truth be told, it was actually pretty helpful. Dean wasn't the extended-back-loofa kind of guy.

Dean opened his eyes slowly and turned his head to the side, his body following the rotation as he held his hand out to Castiel.

"My turn."

Castiel hesitated, an unreadable expression crossing his eyes as he looked down, relinquishing the bar of soap to Dean after a moment. Dean's brow furrowed in question, but as Castiel dutifully turned around, Dean understood the look on his face. It was a bashful form of embarrassment tugging at his lips and eyes as his revolution revealed a secret choice he had made earlier. Despite the removal of all other paint from his body, Castiel had left the strokes of white that formed two painted angel wings across his back. Dean's mouth opened slightly, but then he just smiled, rubbing the soap into his hands.

"Such a shame," he said as his hand connected with Castiel's shoulder. Dean felt an odd sense of pride seeing the wings there, grinning at his back. "I have to undo my own art."

"I liked your art." Castiel said beneath his breath, a hint of sheepish sneaking into his voice. The top few vertebrae of Castiel's spine protruded into slight bumps as his head tipped forward in obvious enjoyment at Dean's touch.

"Yeah, well, it's got to come off sometime." Dean worked smooth circles over Castiel's back, the lines of feathered wings melting and slipping down Castiel's skin in milky white streams. Dean watched the angel wings fall away at his touch, his eyes following their slick journey down the curve of Castiel's figure that was only a bit slighter than his own. Not long and all traces of the painted lines trickled off Castiel's form into the drain at Dean's feet.

His trailing hands slowed their movement, pulling away slowly as Castiel's back was a clean slate of skin. He looked down and pursed his lips. It was clear Castiel was not the only one enjoying the act, and Dean took a step back to keep from rubbing himself against his backside.

"There," Dean trailed the tip of his middle finger down the angel's spine, a slight reluctance clinging to the finished job.

Castiel's voice came low in his throat, thick with concern, "Are you certain you removed it completely?"

Dean looked him over, tilting his head. His relief that Castiel had not yet turned and seen his body's reaction overshadowed the underlying message. "Yeah, you look pretty well—"

He stared into Castiel's motionless figure once it dawned on him, a grin creeping across his face as he over-emphasized his words. "Oh, you know, you're right. I think I missed some."

Castiel nodded his head lightly and Dean smirked, somewhat impressed as his hands connected once again to the warm, slick skin of Castiel's back. They drifted across his shoulders and rolled forward over his chest, the soap leaving a slippery trail as it dragged beneath Dean's palm. He felt Castiel lean back ever so slightly, the blades of his shoulders connecting with Dean's chest as the round curve of his rear met with his hips. Dean held his breath a moment as Castiel melted against him, knowing his excitement had to be apparent to Castiel now. When he didn't pull away, Dean trailed his hands down to the angel's stomach, gliding over his hips and back up, a firmer pressure forming in his quickened movements.

"I told you," Dean rested his chin on Castiel's shoulder as he leaned into him, rolling one of his hardened nipples between his thumb and forefinger. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lip as he looked down, realizing he wasn't alone in the enjoyment creating a reaction further below. "It feels good, right?"

"Yes, it does," Castiel agreed quietly. Dean saw his throat dip as he swallowed, and hesitated only a moment before nudging his face into the crook of Castiel's neck, his arm wrapped around his chest as his other hand trailed the soap across his front.

"I can tell," he murmured.

Castiel looked down, and then tipped his head toward Dean, the relaxation of his eyelids shadowed by a light furrow of his brow. "Is that an…inappropriate reaction to the situation?"

Dean blinked, momentarily forgetting that coy teasing was often lost on the angel, whose only guide thus far had been maneuverings of a drunken, horny Dean who typically behaved with much less tact. Or foreplay. A twinge of guilt pulled at him from this realization.

"No," Dean said honestly, biting his bottom lip. He turned his head down, resting his forehead on Castiel's naked shoulder as the water ran down his back. He wished to say something else, but words were suddenly lost to him as Castiel arched his back, pushing into Dean's hips with the round of his backside. Dean's fingertips dug in.

"Because," Castiel stressed the words, as if repeating a phrase he learned recently, "I am _turned on._ "

Dean's eyes widened slightly, and he found himself at a loss for words. "Yeah?"

He didn't know if he was more amused or aroused by his bluntness.

Castiel spoke again before he could decide. "Aren't you?"

Both, actually.

Dean just replied beneath his breath, "Yeah."

To underline his point, Dean ground his hips into Castiel in one long, firm movement. A sound like a short, soft moan came from deep in Castiel's throat.

"Dean," Castiel closed his eyes and tilted his head back against Dean's shoulder, his gravelly voice deliberate and open as his mouth came nearer to Dean's ear. He pressed back into Dean's body. "I wish you to feel release."

Dean's suddenly tightened grip sent the slippery bar of soap clambering to the tub floor, the crash of it detracting attention—momentarily—as both their eyes followed it to where it settled between Castiel's feet. Castiel began to bend at the waist after it before Dean's arms stiffened around his torso, preventing him.

"Leave it." Dean said against Castiel's ear. He obeyed. The only sound was the spray of the water and the gulp of it swirling down the drain as Castiel waited for a reply to his request, and Dean fought to find one.

"Well, uh," Dean's thumb tapped nervously against Castiel's hip bone as he said lightly with a smirk, attempting to break the tension, "Who taught you to talk dirty, huh?"

Castiel's reply was a slight turn of his head toward Dean's face, who flushed as he realized the irony of the joke. If anyone had taught Castiel anything that had to do with sex, it would have been Dean. Dean in those drunken nights when his barriers shattered and his lust bolted forward, unabashed and full on display, with no room to resist.

Resist.

Had Castiel resisted, that first night that began with a secret longing and ended with Dean bowing before the angel—who didn't know the act had a term and maybe even what was happening? Or did Dean in his aggressive pursuit force himself upon Castiel with a greed he couldn't contest? Guilt crept up his neck as Dean questioned whether the angel had ever wanted him in return, those times before that were blurry to him now.

Castiel's hand reached back, wrapped firmly around Dean's hip, and pulled him in, the pressure of it reassuring, the strength of it dawning on him. The strength of Castiel.

No way Dean has ever forced Castiel throughout any of it. With his power, Castiel could have obliterated him in a second were that the case, especially in his usual state. But _now_ was not usual. _Now_ was clear and purposeful, and _now_ was not forced. Now, Castiel asked for him.

The thought filled him with equal parts trepidation and excitement as Dean's own fingers pressed into the front of Castiel's body, the unanswered request still floating around his head, suspended in wait. Dean licked his lips.

"Are you sure?"

A slight pause.

"Yes," his gravel voice was firm.

Another pause.

"Do you—?" Dean's eyes flicked down his body, saying no more.

"Yes."

The nature of the question and answer was made abundantly clear as Castiel pointedly pressed his backside into Dean's erection. Dean drew in a breath, resisting the urges almost overpowering him.

Castiel marveled at the contrast, the gentle insecurity that swirled around each of Dean's actions in the wake of sobriety. The energy was charged, but so different in its repressed appetite, as if Dean had to trudge through waist-deep mud to acknowledge and voice his own want. And Castiel had to throw him a rope to cling on to and drag him closer to what he found himself anxious in the magnitude of—his own craving.

Dean stepped aside to let the water fall onto Castiel, who inhaled as the patter of warmth against his skin replaced the firm press of Dean's chest.

A billow of steam floated toward the ceiling as a hand reached out, rummaged in a black bag on the back of the toilet, and retreated back into the shower with a small tube. It was set aside on the shelf as Castiel turned, facing Dean, his eyes flicking to the object and back. They beheld one another, and Castiel reached out, grazing the back of his knuckles across the jawline of Dean's face, who closed his eyes momentarily. Dean placed a hand at Castiel's chest, and they met beneath the stream of water in a clash of wet hands, warm mouths, and passion as both gave way to their desires.

Dean pulled his nails down Castiel's back as the angel's arms wrapped around Dean's neck, both pressing and undulating against the soaked body of one another. Their kiss was fevered in the humid pulse of the shower's flow, the water pouring over them and between them in thin trickles the few instances where their bodies parted. Heartbeats accelerated as the wanderings of their hands escalated to groping, and in the passionate throb of their arousal grinding against one another, in unspoken agreement they moved away momentarily, and Castiel reached a hand out to steady himself against the shower wall as he turned his back on Dean. He angled his face to the side, casting a look back at the man who stood in the flow of water that trickled down either side of his neck. The look held a want that verged on demand.

Dean took no time to claim Castiel's body from behind, wrapping his arms around the angel and pulling him close. Castiel's face turned and their lips met over his shoulder, Dean's hand wet and warm from the water pressing against the front of Castiel's neck, his calloused fingers wrapping around the soft skin of his throat. His other hand raced wildly across the front of Castiel's body, stroking down the front of his stomach to his hip and back up to run over the hard nubs at his chest. Castiel reached back with a hand, gripping at Dean's hair as the other pressed against his side, stabilizing himself as he worked his backside against Dean's front, drawing a deep, guttural sound from the man right into Castiel's open mouth. Dean pushed himself against Castiel, drawing himself up along the crevice there as Castiel arched into him. He was so turned on, Dean wondered in a slight panic if he would even make long enough to—

"Dean."

He heard the appeal in Castiel's voice, spurring him to reach out to the tube which he took off the shelf and opened. Castiel allowed him to pull away slightly as Dean worked a thick layer of the clear liquid across his shaft and head, closing his eyes and drawing in a deep breath as he did so.

Dean eyes widened when he looked up to see Castiel had prostrated himself with hands against the wall, bracing himself as he bent at the waist, his legs spread in anticipation. Seeing the angel in such a submissive pose, waiting for Dean to take him, sent a wave of heat up his spine, and when Castiel turned his head, meeting his eye with a look of wanting, lips parted in expectation, it was all Dean could do to keep himself from losing it.

He placed his hands at either side of Castiel's hips, gingerly. They ran up the length of his ribs and back down, gripping as Dean savored the sight of the powerful angel before him, dripping with water and bent over in humble entreaty. Castiel's skin had a red flush to it, and Dean licked his lips, moving forward.

Dean guided the tip of himself to Castiel's entrance, who bowed his head between hands splayed against the wall. Dean's entry was gentle, slow as he dipped lightly in and out a few times. He glanced to Castiel, unable to see his face but encouraged by the way a hoarse whisper fell out in the shape of his name. Dean slid in further, pressing his lips together as Castiel engulfed him. He lifted his face and let out a groan as Castiel reciprocated the pressing, pushing back into Dean's hips and taking him nearly all the way in. They developed a rhythmic pumping as Dean gripped Castiel by the sides, who braced himself with his arms against the shower wall.

The wet skin of Castiel's rear collided against Dean's groin, the pleasure of it weakening his knees as Dean bent over, encapsulating Castiel's back with the whole of his torso. Castiel arched into him as he bucked, lips parted in ecstasy as he felt Dean's hand reach around and grasp his own hardness, spurring him to a faster motion as he rutted into Dean's palm. Castiel rolled his hips forward and bliss ripped across him; he pushed back and Dean groaned carnally as he was taken completely in. Castiel reached back, pressing a hand against Dean's thigh.

"Dean," he called, breathy. Dean continued thrusting, his mouth opening as his face pressed into the space between Castiel's shoulder blades.

"Cas," Dean moaned back, feeling the tightening around him like a forewarning. He himself was building, and bit his lip to hold on just another moment. He glided in and out with increasing speed, forcing his hips against the soft pad of Castiel's rear that smacked as he bucked into him. Dean heard his name fall from the angel's lips in rhythm with his inward strokes, and called Castiel's name in full as he tightened his grip around front, forestalling his own climax with every bit of his strength of will.

"Dean!" Castiel practically yelled as a shudder wracked him, and Dean felt the hot liquid of his pleasure drip over his fingers as he stroked the throbbing length of him, grunting as his own final push into Castiel pulsated with release, and it was all he could do not to collapse onto the shower floor as pleasure washed over them in forceful waves.

Castiel trembled slightly as the blinding light of Dean's convulsion subsided, and slowly Dean withdrew himself, bracing his body both against the wall with one hand, the other resting on Castiel's shoulder.

Castiel turned his head and met Dean's eye as he straightened, breathless as the heaving rise and fall of his chest matched Dean's own panting. The corner of his open mouth turned up. Dean looked at him, face flushed as the long forgotten stream of water persisted at his back. He laughed, his face falling back onto the wet skin of Castiel's shoulder.

The falling water began its descent from the steady warmth it had provided, and before long the two were ejected from a flow of chilled drops that threatened to turn to ice.


	24. Chapter 24 - The Appeal

Castiel finished the last of the buttons on his shirt, casting another glance to the man sitting cross-legged on the bed, shoveling pie into his mouth in amusedly big chunks. Dean was completely absorbed, wearing jeans and no shirt, full attention on the task at hand when he felt eyes on him. He paused mid-chew, catching Castiel's look.

"What?"

The smile was hidden behind his eyes as Castiel shook his head. "Nothing."

"You want some?"

Castiel blinked. He never desired food, having no need for it, but the way Dean held the plastic fork piled with crust and red filling out to him, he felt drawn to it like a fish to a lure. Castiel crossed to the bed, leaning over with one hand on the comforter to support himself as he opened his mouth and took in the bite. He chewed once, and then straightened, swallowing with a great effort.

"What?" Dean asked at his blank expression, a hint of offense barely contained behind the word.

"I don't think," Castiel eyed the rest of the pie in Dean's hands suspiciously, "that _that_ is food."

Dean blew air out his mouth, shoveling another bite into his own face. "Sure it is."

"The molecules are wrong." Castiel scrunched his face, moving his jaw as if tasting every single one of them. "Artificial flavoring, saccharin…dye. It's—"

"You shut your mouth. It's delicious. Best pie I ever had." Dean took another large bite, shrugging through the mouthful, "Better than a cigarette."

Castiel frowned at him. "You don't smoke."

"Yeah, but after that, I just might start." Dean smirked. The crease in Castiel's brow deepened.

"Don't."

The gravity of concern in his voice made Dean look up, who couldn't help but chuckle as Castiel searched his face in confusion and disapproval.

"You're right. I'd hate to risk the danger in my safe and cautious lifestyle." When Castiel's face remained rigid, Dean sighed into another forkfull. "Chill out, Cas, it was a joke."

"I don't get the joke."

"Sometimes after… you know…" Dean gestured with the fork, his mouth stuffed, "A lot of people have a cigarette. It's a thing. It tastes better, or something."

"Oh."

Castiel tucked the edge of his shirt into his pants, finding a strange comfort in the familiarity of the outfit returning on his body. Dean shifted in the silence that followed, clearing his throat before saying in a low tone, "Sorry I didn't… That it didn't last a little longer."

He glanced up to Castiel, who simply tilted his head in response. The gesture brought a smile to Dean's lips, who was finding himself more and more fond of the quirk.

"It was a… I mean I was pretty worked up from—" Dean rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, "It was a long night, you know?"

Castiel nodded, saying gently, "I thought the length of our intercourse was a proper amount of time."

"Damn, Cas, you really have a way with words." Dean raised his brows in mock indignation, but his smirk fell away as Castiel's eyes shifted down, his expression becoming gravely serious. Dean frowned. "What is it?"

"We did not…" Castiel pressed his lips together, evidently perturbed as he mumbled, "…save water."

A bit of crust spewed onto the comforter as Dean burst into laughter, the easy sound of it drawing Castiel's attention from his thoughts. Dean shook his head and sighed, chuckling, "No…we sure didn't."

Castiel's lip turned up as he surmised from Dean's candor that his own worry was misplaced.

He liked this, the easy exchange in the wake of their intimacy, and his smile settled in the comfortable silence that followed. Reaching into his pocket, Castiel pulled out the tie that was folded there and looked at the length of it. He draped it around his neck, accessing the memories of his vessel for the sequence of tucks and pulls to arrange it properly about his collar. Dean's eyes flicked at the motion of Castiel working the tie, and then fell into the tin plate in his hands which was mostly exposed from the disappearing pie.

"Heading out?" The question didn't lift as high and casually as he intended.

Castiel's folding of the tie stuttered a brief moment, then resumed as smoothly as before.

"I suppose."

"Yeah," Dean chased a piece of crust around the tin with the plastic fork. "I guess you've got big…angel-y things to do, right?"

Castiel stayed silent, unsure of whether this was a dismissal or a thickly-veiled pitch. Though he had never quite been ejected, it was not in their routine to stay in one another's company long after their shared moment was over. The longest duration Castiel had spent in the room afterward was when the combination of booze and orgasm left Dean incapacitated to staving off sleep. And then, in the stillness and dark of the motel room, Castiel had remained against his better judgement, and simply watched the steady rise and fall of Dean's chest for several minutes. Once, he reached out and grazed the skin of Dean's arms with the back of his hand. But that was all, and he was gone.

As Castiel worked his tie into a knot, Dean habitually grabbed the remote from the side-table, pursing his lips when no response emanated from the press of the power button.

"Uh…Cas?"

Castiel gave an absent-minded tug at the end of his tie, which wasn't quite symmetrical, and followed Dean's attention over his shoulder to the TV. He recalled the excessive application of power the night before, when things were…blurrier…and the TV had become a casualty. With a nod Castiel crossed to it, placing a hand on the black top. After a pop and a brief flash, the screen blared to life. They both stared motionless as the channel remained as it had been previously, and the sounds of moans and image of figures rather animatedly engaged startled the both of them. With a quick mashing of buttons, the channel switched two clicks, and then went silent and black. Castiel turned to Dean, who grinned and shrugged, tossing the remote aside. Castiel returned the smile. Dean's eyes drifted down to his throat, in which the nearly sloppy knot of the blue tie hung a little too loose. He frowned.

"Oh come on," he said with a critical shake of his head. "You can't go around with _that_. It's an embarrassment."

He set the tin of pie—what was left of it— to the side as he climbed from the bed, standing to face Castiel, who looked down at his tie and frowned. _It's not that bad…_

Dean pulled the length of it apart before Castiel could protest, and went to work folding it anew. Castiel turned his chin down and watched his deft fingers the first few moments, then shifted his eyes to Dean, whose brow knitted in concentration for the task at hand. He stood close enough for Castiel to inhale the scent of him—like rain and spice. After the final pull, Dean tugged the fabric down and wiggled the knot snug against the base of Castiel's throat with his fingers. With a satisfied nod, he patted Castiel on the shoulder, but the angel could feel the weight of Dean's fingers still clasped around the bottom of the tie that hung near his stomach. Without thinking Castiel reached up, grasped the hand, and brought it to his lips, pressing against it.

"Thank you," Castiel said into Dean's startled face, his lips grazing the man's knuckles. Castiel felt the twitch of Dean's instinct—to pull away—followed by a relaxing of his fingers that indicated he decided otherwise. They looked into each others eyes, and Dean reached up with his other hand, placing it at Castiel's cheek as he leaned in, meeting his lips in a tender kiss. It was a short, gentle press, and when Dean pulled away his face and hand, Castiel could still feel the warmth of it lingering on his skin as he opened his eyes.

"Listen, Cas. I want you to stay…" The sudden widened expression with which Castiel looked at him almost made Dean grimace as he forced out the word, "But…"

Dean felt his chest compress as Castiel's eyes fell away from his.

They both knew the brother's return was imminent. The simple fact that Dean had expressed a desire for him to remain almost staved off the disheartening of knowing he must leave. Almost.

Castiel nodded once, trying to disguise his dejection.

"I understand."

It wasn't bitter, but an edge bled through the statement. He turned away, heading to retrieve the last of his ensemble that hung at the bathroom door. A hand at his elbow stopped him.

"Wait…"

Castiel paused, turning his gaze back over his shoulder.

"It's not that I—" Dean pressed his lips together, dropping his hand from Castiel's arm. He started again with an attempt at sounding light, "We'll probably be staying another night, so…if there's a chance, maybe you could…come back. You know, if no one is here."

Castiel's face remained impassive as Dean extended the offer seemingly through a great effort. A moment passed between them before Castiel's voice came low in his throat.

"You mean you'll give me a booty call."

Dean balked, his mouth opening slightly.

"A—booty call?" He shook his head with a dry laugh, "Cas, we need to talk about your new vocabulary."

As Castiel stared unblinking, Dean realized he was being sincere, and the sour sting of the allegation hit him.

"Cas," Dean searched his face for signs of jest as he stepped toward him. "I don't give you… _booty calls_. Is that what you think?"

Castiel turned his face away.

"You have established that the nature of our secret meetings are simply sexual in nature."

"Cas, look at me. If all I wanted was sex, you know I could get it."

That, Castiel couldn't deny, and his hardened expression withered slightly. He continued to the bathroom, grabbing his beige coat from off the door as he wrestled with his thoughts.

"So what is it you want from me?" Dean called after him around the corner. He felt a whisper of relief when Castiel stepped back out, having half-expected the angel to disappear without warning.

Castiel swung the trench coat around his shoulders and approached Dean in even steps. His countenance was hard with resilience as he stared Dean in the face. "I want you to tell me the truth, Dean."

Dean blinked beneath a brow that furrowed in response to Castiel's sudden intensity.

"Truth about what?"

"About this."

Castiel gestured around the room, saying no more. He didn't have to.

"I—" Dean's eyes searched the room, as if the answer was hidden somewhere within it. He finally shook his head, shrugging helplessly. "I don't know."

"That's not good enough."

Dean's jaw clenched.

"I'm trying here, man. But you're asking me to explain something I don't fully get myself. I don't _know_ what the hell this is." Dean's voice suddenly softened, and he bent his head to look into Castiel's face. "But I do know this… I _like_ it. I like being with you."

Castiel's eyes flicked to him, the rigidity of them easing up as they met with Dean's, which gleamed with veracity beneath his brow.

"It feels…right, Cas." He swallowed. "And I don't understand it. But I'm willing to try."

Castiel's expression dissolved with the slip of his eyes away from Dean. "Yet you send me away."

"It's _Sam_ , Cas. What am I supposed to tell him, huh? That I'm fucking the angel that's supposed to be helping us?"

With a scowl and a sharp turn, Castiel halted only at a hand grasping his arm. Dean pulled him back around.

"Don't do that, man, don't take off—"

"Then give me a straight answer, Dean. And try not to insult me."

Castiel's eyes were hard as they peered into Dean's face, which contorted with the struggle of sorting through conflicting thoughts. He opened his palm in a helpless gesture.

"Look, I'm trying alright? This isn't easy. But you wanted to talk. So let's talk." Dean took a breath, and Castiel watched him intently as the words left him with a strain, "I like being with you. But I'm not going to walk down the street holding hands at the farmer's market and open a B&B. That being said, you're not just some ass, okay?"

Dean took a step toward the angel, his lips forming a line as he placed a hand gently at Castiel's shoulder. "You mean way more than that to me. You're really something else, Cas. And I don't know what the hell is happening, but…I don't want it to stop."

Castiel's eyes drifted away. It was Dean's turn to search his face.

"What is it you want from _me_?" Dean asked. Castiel met his eye a moment before his glance flicked away again.

"I understand you not wanting your family and friends to know of your personal affairs," Castiel said gruffly. "I mean, this form of…engagement with one of god's creatures is…frowned upon. To say the least."

Dean's hand slipped away from Castiel's shoulder as his forehead drew a small crease, this being the first time he considered the inherent taboo from the other side. He pursed his lips. "So you get it."

"I understand your desire for discretion, yes." Castiel's mouth drew a flat line, "But last night, in that place—you were…" He frowned as he searched, "Why can't it be—"

"I said and did a lot of things last night," Dean sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "And I had fun. But that's different. That club was different."

"Different how?"

"It's no big deal at a place like that. Being together, out in the open. Two dudes." Dean gave a huff, throwing out his hands. "What, you want to go back to the club?"

"It doesn't have to be a club."

"What, then? Fricken' dinner and a movie?"

Castiel met his eye and Dean's smirk fell away. The man's expression opened as a wave of shock passed over him, and Castiel's gaze drew to the floor.

A moment of silence filled the motel room.

"Cas…" Dean leaned in carefully, his mouth slightly agape as he asked slowly with disbelief, "Do you…want to go on a date?"

Castiel's voice was brusque as he avoided Dean's eye. "Is it so inane a request?"

"I'm just…shocked." Dean leaned back, blinking at Castiel in an appraising manner. "I never would have thought you—a _date_?"

"Like humans do."

"You're _not_ human. You don't even eat!"

"I know that," Castiel said, surly.

"What could you possibly get out of going on a _date_?"

Castiel stared at the nearly empty silver tin of pie laying forgotten on the bed, his chin moving to the side in thought.

"Humans are…simple. Yet divinely complex." Castiel tilted his head to the side, peering into Dean as if he could see the whole of humanity through his eyes. "You eat, drink, and tolerate one another's company for the sheer motivation of indulgence."

Castiel's expression broke into one of wonderment, and he spoke slowly as he gazed past Dean into the ether, "Who knew one could...'spend time' without purpose, and receive such satisfaction? Experiencing this—entertainment—that you hold so infinitely dear…I'm beginning to understand what it is…to be human. To have _fun_. Something angels are not familiar with." He returned from his mind's eye, landing that piercing gaze onto Dean.

"I wish to explore this concept more. With you. And if this is not _just sex_ , as you say, I think it only befitting."

A quiet stretched between them as Dean processed this. He backed a few steps to the bed, and sat at the edge of it with a sigh. His voice was subdued under a weight.

"Listen, Cas… Once this goes outside, it's not just between us anymore." Dean ran his hands over his face, then dropped them to his knees with a slap. "God, Cas, if Sammy found out, or hell—Bobby? I wouldn't be able to look them in the eye."

Castiel's demeanor shifted, and his jaw clenched with a darkening of his eyes.

"You're not the only one with something at stake here, Dean. You think I want my brethren to know what I've done?" Castiel's words came harsh as he loomed over the man. "Fraternization of this kind with a human is considered an abomination unto heaven."

"Why risk it, then?" Dean's voice rose to meet his. "What's it worth?"

"Everything."

The absolution struck Dean. His puzzlement came out in a whisper.

"Why…?"

"Because when I'm with you, Dean, I feel."

"You…" Dean blinked. "What?"

"I _feel_." The word left Castiel with force. He broke his eye contact, turning away and unclenching the fists he suddenly noticed were balled tight. His voice was deep, subdued, coming low from him as if from far away.

"I am thousands of years old, born a soldier into a life of servitude and obedience—never questioning—and it was easy. Because I had no choice. Because angels are not born to _feel_. We are born to follow orders and uphold God's will. For centuries I've been a passive observer of humankind and I've seen—war, famine, destruction, horrors of all manner your kind inflict upon one another. But since—" Castiel's shoulders relaxed as he lifted his face, sighing deep out of his nose into the air. "…Something's happened. Since I came to Earth, immersed in the world of humans, I've found…there is much more here than the abhorrences I've witnessed. Kindness. Fun. Love. These things are foreign to my kind, but being here with you, I've learned—we are capable. Of learning from humans. Of feeling."

Castiel's face turned to him, all traces of vexation melted from his blue eyes.

"And when I'm with you Dean, I feel. Everything. And it's terrifying. But I don't want it to stop."

Dean had rose from his seated position on the edge of the bed as Castiel spoke, drawing towards him slowly to meet him face to face. At this last utterance, his hands slipped up around either side of his face, pulling him in and meeting their lips together. Castiel kept his eyes open a moment before melting into the kiss, bringing his own hands to Dean's sides and pressing against him. He could feel the depth of Dean's kiss surging into him like electricity, the outward calm of it disparate with the fear entwining with excitement inside, and something unnamed driving behind the firm press of his lips like a great storm. Dean's thumb stroked a line across Castiel's cheek as he pulled back, opening his eyes with his face only an inch from Castiel's, who could feel his breath against his lips as he spoke.

"Listen, Cas…" Dean's eyes were tender and intent, his voice hushed to almost a whisper, "I want to tell you, I—"

A key slid in the door, and Dean's hands slipped from Castiel. A turn of his head, and Dean saw the handle move.

A look back, and Castiel was gone.


	25. Chapter 25 - The Call

"Oh, hey," Sam shut the door behind himself, a paper bag rustling in his hand. "You're upright."

Dean turned away from the suddenly empty space in front of him, fixing his expression to neutral. The edge of his lips still tingled from the press of Castiel against them.

"You hungry? I brought Chinese."

"Nah, I'm good." Dean threw a thumb over his shoulder toward the bed, where only a few crumbling bites remained in a nearly empty tin. "I had dinner."

The brother raised a brow, blowing air out his nose. He noticed an odd stiffness in Dean's demeanor when he had come in to find him standing in the middle of the room, but didn't ask. He said with a hint of sarcasm, "Well, if nothing else, I knew you'd come back for the pie."

"Yeah…About that," Dean crossed to the tiny motel closet, grabbed a shirt, and mumbled into it as he pulled it over his head, "Sorry to have worried you."

"Hey, no problem," Sam said lightly as he settled in at the table, pulling out some wooden chopsticks and popping them apart. "I got your message, so I knew you weren't dead."

He had heard the squeals and the thumping beat nearly drowning out the cryptic words recorded on his voicemail, but mentioned neither of these things. Sam eyed his brother. "Do I even want to know?"

Dean flopped onto his designated motel bed, throwing his arm over his face to cover his eyes in the crook of his arm.

"Nope."

"'Kay."

The only sound for several moments was the slurping of noodles from one side of the room. Sam noticed the chair he sat in was devoid of a certain coat that had been previously draped over the back when last he left, but he didn't say anything about it.

The movement of Dean's arm falling from his face drew a glance from Sam, who surmised from his previous condition the elder brother was in pretty bad shape. But the weight of his body on the bed didn't hold the lethargy and sluggishness Sam had come to know meant his brother was hungover, and the stare of Dean's eyes towards the ceiling held a certain agitation unusual for him the day after a successful hunt.

"How you feeling?" was all Sam asked.

"Like a ray of sunshine."

"You seem…better."

"Yeah, I bounce back," Dean shifted on the bed, placing the tin of pie on the table next to a mostly full bottle of whiskey. Sam noticed it, but said nothing. Dean cleared his throat and asked absent-mindedly, "Anything interesting at the library?"

"Books. Newspapers." Sam shrugged, attention seemingly on the pile of soy-laden noodles before him.

"Come across anything? Anything interesting?"

Dean's voice was far-off, as if distracted. Sam shook his head.

"Nothing unusual. No cases yet."

"Hm."

Dean's head leaned back against the headboard, eyes closed.

Sam asked with a mouthful, "You wanting to hit the road, or…?"

Dean was silent a moment, seeming to weigh this decision with extensive deliberation.

"Guess we could do another night," he concluded finally. "Might as well, right?"

Sam nodded, chasing the food into his mouth with the chopsticks. "Sounds good to me."

In the quiet, Dean reached to the remote, mashing a button and bringing the black box to life. Sam turned over his shoulder, staring at the television in surprise.

"Oh, it works?" he asked.

Dean hesitated only a second.

"Why wouldn't it?"

"I thought it was—I couldn't get it to—" Sam frowned, shaking his head. He gave a 'huh' alongside a shrug, turning back to his food. The rapid flipping of channels was the only sound for several minutes, filling the room with a succession of half-finished sentences and interrupted sound effects. Sam slurped out of a straw, noticing Dean's eyes weren't even on the TV.

"Any plans tonight, then?" Sam asked casually. "Or just gonna chill in the room?"

Dean was silent a long moment, which drew a curious glance from the younger brother. He meant it as an idle question, not expecting it to hold so much consideration.

Finally, Dean answered in a guarded fashion, "I might go out later."

Sam smirked.

"Gonna come back covered in glitter?"

"Shut up."

Sam pointed the chopsticks at him.

"Hey, when I find you in _that_ condition, I'm entitled to make fun of you."

"Alright, fair," Dean rolled his eyes and grumbled, "But you only get one more—get it out of your system—then I'm beating your ass."

"Deal."

Dean reclined against the headboard, continuing his blasé flipping through channels, the images barely registering to him. His eyes glazed over some baseball game between two teams he didn't care about, and after a few moments Dean swung his feet to the floor, moving to the bathroom.

With a start and a flush across his cheeks, Dean spotted a personal item left on the shower shelf, forgotten in the progression of events. He threw the tube in his bag, shaking his head at himself as he swiped his discarded clothes from where they laid in a sloppy pile on the floor. His shirt and underwear he crumpled under his arm, but the jeans he shook out and began to fold, pausing as a corner of a flat, white object poked out from one of the pockets. Dean pulled it out slowly, eyes scanning each of the pictures from the photo booth in turn as they were revealed from the denim.

The jeans hung loose over his arm, draped absent-mindedly as he stared down at that last photograph, his lip curving up without his notice.

"Heading out?" Sam asked as Dean crossed behind him to the motel room door.

"Just…something in the car," he mumbled, distracted.

"Don't get caught in a paint trap."

"Alright, you're done," Dean gave a noncommittal swipe at his brother's head as he pulled open the door.

Sam dodged easily it with a smirk.

* * *

The black trunk flew up, and habitually a tall wooden pole tucked under the hood to prop it open. Dean blinked into the empty space at the back of the car, where a removable lid concealed the vast array of weapons, salt, and tools beneath it, undetectable to anyone who didn't know to look for it.

Hidden from the closed blinds of the motel room window behind the lifted cover, Dean scanned the parking lot. Finding it empty, he took a breath, staring into the open trunk.

"Oh, Castiel," he drawled out the words in a revered sermon, "I pray to thee to make thy angel presence known."

Dean glanced over one shoulder, then the other. He pursed his lips.

"Cas," he dropped the affected voice, speaking low with a slight exasperation. "Wouldya just come down here a sec? I want to talk."

He waited expectantly, casting another look over the empty parking lot. Dean sighed, pulled the wedge of wood from beneath the trunk's cover and dropped it closed, revealing Castiel standing at the front of the car, watching him.

Dean blinked, and then motioned him over hurriedly. Castiel scrunched his brow, then joined Dean at the rear of the car as he reopened the trunk, putting a barrier between them and the motel room window, obscuring them from anyone who might peer out of it.

Castiel said nothing, and instead simply looked at Dean Winchester. The full attention Castiel gave to him made something inside Dean squirm, blue eyes boring into him as if to unveil all the secrets of his soul.

It was clearly his move.

"So…" Dean dragged the word out, rocking back and forth on his feet. Castiel waited. "About that date…"

Castiel's expression shifted ever so slightly, his eyes becoming minutely wider. Dean looked at him and, receiving no feedback, threw his hands out, fingers splayed in a shrug before clapping against his thighs. "Screw it, yeah. Let's do it."

The corner of Castiel's mouth lifted, and Dean shoved his hands into his pockets.

"When?" was all Castiel said.

"When?" Dean ignored a churn in his stomach. "How about tonight? We're sticking around and—Well, you got anything crazy going on upstairs?"

Castiel tipped his head to the side, raising one ear to the sky as if listening. He was quiet a moment before looking back at Dean.

"No pressing matters. We seem to be experiencing a reprieve from major activity."

"Alright then, it's settled."

The two looked at each other, and Castiel caught a flicker of thought behind Dean's eye.

"Are…" Castiel peered into Dean's face, searching uncertainly, "Are you sure?"

"Hey, don't get all demure on me all of a sudden." Dean's countenance shifted as he crossed his arms and leaned solidly against the taillight of the Impala. "If that's what it takes to prove to you I'm serious, then hell, get ready. 'Cause I'm gonna wine and dine the shit out of you."

This Castiel allowed to bring a smile to his lips, and Dean's eyes shifted away as that churn turned flutter.

"So what, seven? I can meet you at, uh…" Dean's mouth quirked to the side in thought. "How about that bar we met at last night? The first one." Dean smiled. "The less sticky one."

Castiel nodded. "I can transport us to—"

"No, no, no," Dean silenced him with a wave of his hand. "I'm in charge here. And we're doing it the old-fashioned way. I'm picking you up."

Castiel acquiesced with a nod, sensing that Dean taking charge was a good sign. "You are the top."

"I'm—the what?"

"The top," Castiel said absolutely.

"I don't even—" Dean's brows drew together and he peeked around the open trunk toward the motel room. "I gotta get back in there. So…seven?"

Castiel nodded once.

"Alright, then. Gives you time to get dolled up," Dean smirked. He straightened from against the car and looked at his foot as it kicked across the asphalt. His eyes shifted to Castiel from beneath his brow. "See you then."

That subtle smile played at the corner of Castiel's lips, which Dean's eyes drifted to. He considered a moment, and pursed his own, beginning to lean in. Before his shoulders moved forward even an inch, Castiel was gone.

Dean blinked, rolling his eyes at himself and his knotted stomach, and threw closed the lid of the trunk.

* * *

Sam straightened and closed the door to the mini-fridge, turning as Dean came back into the room. They met eyes a brief moment, a question seeming to seethe behind Sam's analytical expression. Dean diverted to the bed, flopping onto his back and immediately set back to channel-flipping. Sam noticed Dean had returned empty-handed, and was about to inquire, when a chime emanated from his pocket and interrupted his thought.

He pulled out his phone, his brow furrowing deeply as he stared at the message.

"What the…"

Dean noticed the look on his brother's face and sat up, vigilant.

"What is it?"

Sam's eyebrows raised and he pursed his lips as he blinked into the small screen, reading aloud, _"Hey Dean's brother! Got this number from Carter. Tell that slut and his otter the next time they're in town to come hit us up! -P."_

Sam's face turned from the screen to his brother, contorted in confusion. Dean's stare bore into the TV screen, lips pursed as he shook his head in certain ignorance.

"What the hell is this, Dean?"

Dean shrugged, leaning back against the headboard, one arm propped behind his head.

"No idea," he lied.

"Alright," Sam smirked and muttered under his breath, "Slut."

"Shut up."

Sam noticed the acute attention his brother suddenly gave to the changing channels and the deep scarlet ravaging his face, but said nothing.


	26. Chapter 26 - The Outfit

**PART II**

 _ **Date-scapades!**_

* * *

A woman's stride held urgency as she stepped through the aisles of clothes, brow deeply creased and eyes imperative. She bypassed a line of people clutching armfuls of clothes and approached the desk, leaning over it to the thin, blonde, crisply dressed individual who was folding a customer's purchases into a meticulous stack.

"Excuse me!" she flipped a curl of hair over her shoulder, as if it would allow her harsh whisper to be heard better. "There's some… _weirdo_ over there ogling the… _ladies' undergarments_!"

The man's eyebrows lifted slightly as he regarded her, and he craned his neck to peer over rows of racks toward the aforementioned department. Sure enough, amidst the lacy unmentionables, a dark-haired individual stood staring vacantly into a stack of bustiers.

"I'll take care of it," the cashier assured, tossing over his shoulder, "Carol, would you watch my till for a minute?"

"Sure thing, P."

He left the woman flustered at the register, watching his back at it wove through the racks toward the ladies' lingerie.

The employee cleared his throat as he approached the man, drawing the intruder's eyes from a pair of lacy polka-dotted panties he held out from his body between his fingers like a small animal that might bite him. He turned his head at the sound, and the cashier froze.

"Cassie?"

He was clearly astonished.

"Hello, Percy."

Castiel didn't seem surprised.

"What are you doing in the chick's panty aisle?"

Castiel furrowed his brow at the article in his hand, then turned toward a bright red sign with white lettering looming over the section. It read, _Hot Date Tonight? Look No Further! BOGO Lingerie! Really Make Him Say: WOW!_

"Oh my," Percy followed his gaze. "You didn't strike me as the kinky type."

"I am trying…" Castiel swallowed, dropping the garment back into the bin with the others, "…to get _dolled up._ "

Percy's laugh rang out in that sheer delight it always held. "Oh yeah? What's the occasion?"

"I've made a terrible mistake."

Percy's expression darkened, "Cassie, what did you do?"

"I've…requested a date." Castiel's eyes shifted beneath his brow to look at him. "…with Dean."

"Oh!" Percy squealed, bouncing forward and wrapping his arms around Castiel who, too startled to do otherwise, let him. "Good for you! My little otter, all grown up!"

"You don't understand," Castiel managed with Percy's cheek squished against his own, "I don't know how—what to do. In this situation."

Before requiring removal, Percy had released Castiel and backed up of his own accord, his eyes shining mirthfully.

"Well, you don't put this stuff on." He gestured to the women's undergarments, pausing suddenly to cast a look back at Castiel. "Unless…he's into that sort of thing."

Castiel was preoccupied with his first failure of the evening, brow wrinkled in concern that it would be the first of many. At his silence, Percy leaned in, asking cautiously, "Is he…into that sort of thing?"

Castiel blinked away his thoughts.

"Not to my knowledge."

"Hey, I don't judge, just here to help!" Percy said easily, that smirk pulling at his lip. "And you, my friend, wandered into just the right place!" He leaned forward, raising an eyebrow. "Unless…you were looking for me." He winked.

"You have a unique output that renders you easily tracked."

"I call it my panache!" Percy gave a motion as if to flip the long locks of hair that didn't exist on his clean-cut head. "Alright, so let's get out of here and take you somewhere more…appropriate. Come on."

He wrapped his arm around the crook of Castiel's elbow, pulling him in that familiar way he had the night before, when Castiel felt simultaneously nervous and safe being tossed about the whims of this energetic fellow.

"By the way, what happened last night?" Percy asked as he dragged Castiel along. Castiel noticed a small hole in the crook of Percy's nostril, where the silver ring had been before. "We turned around and you were gone. Just disappeared!"

"It was…time to go."

"I'll say. Little Deany-poo was schwasted. Not that I'm complaining about the outcome. That hot tub was a-MAZ-ing!" Percy practically sang, weaving the both of them through racks of clothes. "And now, Mr. Castiel, _you_ are not the only one with a hot date tonight."

He waggled his eyebrows at Castiel as they passed his former post at the cash register.

"Carol," he called in a way that was both polite and unwavering, "Watch my till, I'm taking my lunch."

"Sure thing, Perc," she smiled, clearly used to his commanding way as they passed the line of customers that had been Percy's duty, and he guided Castiel to a heavily mirrored section containing a couch and other plush seats arranged around a circular sort of stage.

"Alright, Constantine, get up there," Percy ordered, herding Castiel up onto the platform. He grasped the lapels of his trench coat, "But without this."

Castiel slipped out of it and as he stepped up, standing stiffly on display. Percy tossed the beige coat across the arm of a cushioned chair and began to circle around Castiel, hand on his chin.

"What are you doing?" Castiel had recently begun to experience a new feeling that had never touched him in the orderly life of heavenly operations: awkward. He felt this now as Percy studied him analytically.

"Fixing you UP, doll-face. That's what you came here for, right?" Percy looked him up and down as Castiel stood still. "I'd say you're a perfect medium—slim fit and fourteen-and-a-half collar should do just fine," Percy concluded, adding, "Lord knows you need my help, Mr. Don't-get-caught-in-a-dark-alley-with-me-trench-coat-guy."

"Your…previous council did prove immensely helpful."

Percy grinned wickedly, "So your night went alright then, huh?"

Castiel said nothing. Percy giggled.

"Well if you think _that_ was a success, just wait until I'm through with you. You're going to drop little Deany's panties to the floor."

Castiel's brow furrowed, "I thought we were foregoing the women's garments."

Percy placed a hand at his chest and sighed, "Oh 'Stiel. I adore you. Now c'mon."

* * *

As Dean swung his legs off the bed and stood for the umpteenth time in the last hour, Sam finally shut the lid on his laptop, calling at his brothers back as he filled a plastic cup with tap water.

"You're antsy. What's up?"

Dean caught Sam's eye in the mirror a moment.

"Nothin,' man."

"Alright, but your pacing back and forth is making me dizzy."

Dean shrugged, making his way back to the bed.

"Little too much coffee, is all."

"'Kay," Sam waved it off, unfolding the top to his computer in resignation after glancing to both bags of pre-ground motel coffee that sat untouched on the counter.

Before Sam's fingers even touched the keyboard, Dean spoke up.

"Alright, so…here's the thing," Dean sat at the edge of the bed, facing Sam, who glanced from his laptop. "I'm gonna come clean here, really lay it all out for you."

Sam turned his body to face him, hiding his surprise as he gave Dean his full attention.

"Yeah?"

"Last night, I was with…" Dean licked his lips, staring off slightly. Sam's head tipped forward in interest.

"…yeah?"

"This…" Dean shook his head slowly, pursing his lips, "Smokin' hot bombshell of a chick."

Sam leaned back slightly, blinking. "Oh."

"Yeah, the whole package," Dean continued, admiration evident in his voice, "Rockin' bod, blonde hair—"

"—blue eyes?" Sam interjected.

"Brown. Black, almost," Dean didn't miss a beat. "Ass of an a—…like a— just a great ass, y'know?"

"Alright, I get the picture."

"And it's gettin' really—" Dean caught the look in his brothers eye which begged him not to divulge too much detail, "I mean, things get a little…exciting. Next thing I know, this chick's confessing some sorta…feelings about the whole thing."

Sam scoffed, "And this shocks you?"

Dean shrugged, leaning back, "Well, I figured it was all for a good time, y'know? But—"

"She doesn't know you're a drifter."

"I prefer 'modern cowboy.'"

"Alright, well, you're leaving tomorrow. What's the big deal?" Sam threw his hand in the air. "You jet off, she never hears from you again, what makes this different than the slew of broken hearts you leave in the wake of every hunt?"

"Not _every_ hunt."

"You're right, that's giving you too much credit," Sam smirked and his eyes drifted back to the screen of his computer.

"She kinda…" the sudden hesitation in his voice made Sam look back at Dean, "…She wanted a date."

"And you turned her down." It wasn't so much a question as an assumption, the only logical response.

"I, uh…"

Sam's eyebrows lifted as he shut the lid of his computer once more, regarding Dean with astonishment. "Really? You're going on a _date_?"

Dean's forehead scrunched with indignation, "Don't act like you've just seen a dog walk on its hind legs. I've been on a date."

"When?"

"That's not the point."

A moment passed, a sort of stand-off where Sam attempted to steer back to the unasked question tearing at his brother's conscience, and Dean refused to surrender any hints.

"So…" Sam ventured cautiously, studying Dean's face, "You're nervous."

"No," Dean scoffed, and immediately his attitude shifted. 'Well, a little, actually."

Sam raised his brows, keeping silent to allow space for him to continue.

"It's just—" Dean sighed, staring down at the floor as he drank the water, biding for time. How could he explain his trepidation in a way that didn't give himself away? He looked up with a revelation, "What if we come back, and I run into her? Or what if—what if she's a hunter in disguise, and she comes after me? Things go south a-and, the next thing I know, she's at my door with a blade, y'know?"

Sam tried to stifle his amusement at this outlandish fear, knowing the anxiety his brother had was real, even if the situation he described was not.

"So you're afraid you'll blow it."

"Seems par for the course. I mean, is it like me to go through with this sort of thing?"

The question wasn't a question, and Sam felt a hint of pity at the sad traces at the edge of his brother's expression. He asked, "Well, do you want to?"

Dean looked to the floor, his brow furrowed. He couldn't think with Sam's analytical eyes on him, and his true fear now was that he had said too much. They were in too close proximity for Dean to be able to hide his apparent agitation until the actual event, but Sam was smart—too smart—and Dean suddenly regretted bringing it up at all. He couldn't get advice on this, not without the whole story. Not without confessing—

"Ah, well…" Sam's voice came gently, interrupting the flow of thoughts whirling about Dean's brain. "If—if I'm hearing what I think you're telling me then, the only thing you can do is be honest."

Dean blinked. "Honest?"

"Yeah," Sam gave a small, humorless laugh. "For once."

Dean's expression told him that it hurt, in that way that only true things can. Dean's eyes fell again, as the fabrication of his story fell away and Sam's words hit home to the reality of the situation.

"If you don't feel that way—" Sam continued, with a little more understanding, "The way…they say they feel, then say so. Let 'em down gently, I'm sure they'll understand."

Dean perked up. "What?"

"I said let her down gently."

"Oh, I thought you—" Dean stared hard at his brother, who tipped his head questioningly. "I misheard what you said, I guess."

Sam pursed his lips, saying no more.

"Well, thanks for the talk," Dean slapped his thighs and stood, taking the now empty plastic cup in one hand and grabbing the full bottle of whiskey with the other. "Guess I gotta get ready to…break some hearts."

Dean smirked, twisting the cap off.

"Dean," Sam's expression was serious, his voice low and calm. Dean paused mid-tilt of the bottle. "Don't go messing around with someone that cares about you if—if you don't feel the same."

Dean nodded, resuming the pour of liquid into the plastic cup. "You always were the sensitive one."

"Hey," Sam shrugged, opening his computer and turning back toward it, "You asked."

"Yeah, thanks Dr. Phil," Dean turned away and sipped his whiskey. "Remind me not to, next time."

Sam watched his brother, when Dean thought he wasn't, stare off into the wall, wrestling with some heavy, convoluted dilemma in his mind that was his alone to bear.

* * *

"Oh, and another thing—At dinner, be sure to let him know what's to come later. Tease him a little."

There was a lapse in reply from behind the thick curtain that divided the changing room from where Percy sat. From behind it, Castiel asked, "And what is going to come later?"

"You are!" Percy giggled, reclined back in the black cushioned chair with his leg propped over the side as he pulled potato chips one-by-one out of a bag and popped them in his mouth. He thought he could sense the blush from behind curtain #2. "Honey, the mystery hour is over—you ain't waiting 3 dates at this point. But still…doesn't hurt to tease."

"Is teasing good? I thought it was considered mean."

"Oh, it's the best."

The metal rings slid against the pole they hung on, and Percy lit up, straightening in his seat with half a chip dangling from his open mouth.

"Oh. My. GOD."

Castiel looked warily at him, never sure if the expression was one of horror or approval.

"Is it…adequate?"

"No," Before Castiel's shoulders fell, Percy grinned wide, clapping his hands together and practically squealed, "It's FABULOUS!"

Castiel brightened, looking down to his new outfit. A fitted slate-colored sweater came down in a V below his neck, where the patterned collar of blue, white, and grey plaid popped over the sides. The navy pants he wore were much more fitted than the black slacks he had become accustomed to, and the entirety of these new clothes fit him like a glove.

"Oh, sweetie, you've got a date!" Percy had approached and was rolling a sleeve up to his forearm, tucking the sweater beneath the undershirt's pattern as he spoke. "Aren't you excited?!"

Castiel swallowed, glancing up to him.

"The emotion I am experiencing is more akin to fear."

"Aww, you're nervous," Percy smiled as he went to work rolling his other sleeve. "That mean's it's important."

"Is there anything else I should—something I'm supposed to—"

Castiel face fell helplessly, at a loss. Percy cast an encouraging look at him.

"Well, what kind of guy is Deany-boy? Modern man, traditionalist…?"

Castiel thought a moment, then perked up, recalling Dean's description of picking him up. "What is, _old-fashioned_?"

Percy burst into a laugh. "Really? _Him_? Like bringing flowers and opening doors and shit?"

Castiel tipped his head in interest, recalling scenes of an older black-and-white film where a courting couple exhibited such behavior.

"I did think there was something peculiar about presenting another with severed reproductive components of plant matter…"

"Well, gross, when you say it like _that_." Percy turned, retrieving a soft blue bow tie from a side table near the chair he had been reclining on. "Here, just in case that boy is under the delusion of possibly swimming out of those baby blues of yours…"

He pulled the length of it around Castiel's collar, going to work on the final piece of his ensemble that perfectly matched the color of Castiel's irises. Percy smirked as he tucked and folded the bow tie, pleased with himself.

"You wanna know what to do to _really_ get him in the palm of your hand?" He quirked a mischievous brow as Castiel was pulled from his thoughts, full attention hanging on his next words, "Be late."

Castiel blinked. "Late?"

"You guys are meeting up, right? So just…add a little extra 10 to your travel time."

"But we have an appointment." Castiel's brow furrowed, the idea of arriving past the established meeting time an idea as foreign to him as showing up in a banana suit with a parakeet.

"It'll put him on edge a little, which is good to get blood flowing, y'know?" Percy gave a devilish perk of his eyebrows, pulling the edges of the bow tie taut. "And Mr. Thinks-he's-so-in-charge, well…We'll see whose on top when you show up in this."

He grasped Castiel by the shoulders, turning him to face the tri-mirror which reflected Castiel's image back to himself from the front and each side. His eyes scanned the new outfit, and he inwardly marveled at the difference in his appearance. The clothes he wore day-to-day were of no significance to him, and it had never occurred to him that this was a matter that could be altered to such a drastic effect.

Percy peeked over Castiel's shoulder into the mirror, pulling from behind at the folds of the bow tie to straighten it snugly at the base of his neck.

"Oh, and one last thing…" He produced from his pocket a small, plastic, square package, a faint edge in shape of a circle raised beneath the strawberry design on the outside. He reached into Castiel's sweater, tucking it in the left breast pocket of the shirt beneath. "At the end of the night, make sure he knows what he's having for dessert."

He grinned into the mirror at Castiel, grasping his shoulders and squeezing.

"You're ready."

Castiel looked at the mirror, then down at himself, and then helplessly at his friend.

"I don't feel ready."

Percy rolled his eyes, dropping his hands.

"Look, he already likes you, else he wouldn't have asked you out, right? So just chill, let things happen." He put a reassuring hand at Castiel's shoulder. "If he sees you for who you are, he won't be able to help himself falling in love."

Castiel had been studying his new appearance in the mirror, but at that last utterance his head turned to regard Percy out of the corner of his eye.

Percy blinked back at his expression.

"Ooh, what, the L word not allowed yet?"

Castiel swallowed.

"That particular…terminology is not a subject that has been breeched."

"I see," Percy nodded slowly, then peered into his face. "Well...do you? Love him?"

Castiel's brows drew slightly together, and his curious look turned inward. It was hard to give name to all the new sensations he had been experiencing as of late, and _that_ was not a term he thought to assign to any of these. He understood duty, yes. Even loyalty, a feeling he held strongly from the ranks in heaven. And he felt these things for Dean, to follow his whims, reckless as they may be. He trusted him, even when it didn't make sense. But was that love?

"I'm not for certain I know what love is," Castiel admitted finally.

"You've never been in love?" The question was gentle, but curious.

 _In love._ Was being in love different than loving someone? Castiel understood devotion, yes. He thought of other angels he admired for their strength, or abilities. But love?

"No."

Castiel's eyes bore into the reflection of himself, as if seeking the answer within his image would illuminate it. These other feelings had names, but the one that was odd, displaced, new... The one that sunk in his gut and lifted in his chest when Dean was near. The storm of the sea waging war against the calmest of oceans. The feeling of being held fast while the floor ripped out from beneath. Of falling, or was it a sensation of soaring? Was this love?

"Well," Percy's voice pulled him from the deep recesses of his mind, "When you are, you'll know. And when you love someone, you gotta tell them. Because you only deserve someone that feels the same."

Castiel regarded him with a far-off look, still processing the whirling questions that loomed over the inquiry.

 _Love?_

A popping at his side pulled him from his thoughts, and he blinked them away, looking down.

"What are you doing?"

He looked down to Percy, who had found another paper tag on the plaid shirt, and popped it from the thin plastic connector as well.

"Taking care of this for you." He met Castiel's eye, and gave him that wink-and-smirk combo.

Castiel's forehead creased, and then opened as he realized his meaning, and that the issue of money hadn't occurred to him during the activity of dress-up. He guessed the few wadded dollars in his other pants were not enough to cover the cost of his new look. His mouth opened, then closed soundlessly, unsure of how to properly thank Percy for his kindness, and finding himself in awe of it.

Percy caught his look, and the question looming behind it, and smiled warmly.

"Consider it a little…thank you," he said, collecting the last of the tags at the waist of Castiel's pants, "For introducing me to the Bear of my dreams." He winked again, tucking the stack into his own breast pocket. "Plus, I get a wicked discount."

The mixture of awe and thanks on Castiel's features made Percy's mouth widen to a grin, and he gave him a quick slap on his rear.

"Now go get him, tiger," He laughed as Castiel reacted with confusion at the gesture, and Percy swiped his hand like a claw at his face. "Reaowr!"


	27. Chapter 27 - The Rose

It was quiet—much more quiet than the night before—with the dim lights that hung across the bar and over individual tables throughout the room casting spotlights over empty seats. It was early for most drinkers, and the man sidling up to the bar noticed with a faint relief that the he was nearly alone.

"Hey there. What can I get y—"

Dean glanced up when her voice suddenly stopped. As their eyes met, recognition sparked in both.

"Oh, it's _you_ ," she said with a playful smirk and a raised eyebrow. "Back to torment me with more cheesy one-liners?"

Dean chuckled sheepishly, settling onto the bar stool. He remembered this raven-haired bartender from the night before who had taken his flirtation in stride, and even lobbed a few of her own back his way. That was before he got the boot, when all he had aimed for was some eye candy and a healthy dose of forgetting.

"I think I used them all up."

"Thank God."

They both laughed and Dean rubbed the back of his head, wondering if it was too late to bail and have Castiel meet him elsewhere.

"So, whiskey, then?"

"Actually," Dean glanced her way, surprised at her memory. Hazel eyes smiled warmly at him. "I'll stick with a beer."

"Lager?"

"Works for me."

By force of habit Dean's eyes wandered downward when she turned. How much different his night would have been had Castiel not appeared, for whatever reason he did. He wouldn't be sitting here now, waiting…to go on a date with him.

"What brings you out tonight?" The bartender's voice pulled Dean from his thoughts as the tap flowed into the glass, "Trying to get thrown out twice in a row?"

"Hey, your boyfriend was pretty touchy," Dean defended with a smirk, "I hadn't even gotten started yet."

"He's… not my boyfriend." She rolled her eyes as she approached the bar with a pint full of bubbling, yellow liquid, setting it down in front of Dean. She added pointedly, looking sideways at him, "I am …unaccounted for."

"Ah. Well," Dean tried not to take her admittance personally as he accepted the beer, "I'll try to behave myself tonight."

"You better," she smirked, "Or I'll have to be the one to handle you."

Dean took this one personally, as the curve of her lip suggested he do. He raised his glass to her sly smile and, finding no retort, simply drank. She was pretty, in that classic sort of way where the rose-red lipstick and jet-black hair adorning her gave her a sharp edge that matched her wit, and softened sweetly when she smiled. She was his type—the kind that knew how to shut him up. Not to mention—he noticed as she bent to wring a towel from a sanitation bucket near the floor— well-proportioned.

Dean's grin faded slightly and he peeked at his phone, remembering himself and what he was there for. _Four minutes after seven._ His smile slipped away as he studied the time with a pensive look.

"Waiting for someone?"

Dean glanced up to her as she leaned conversationally against the bar, watching him.

"Uh, yeah actually," he mumbled, stowing his phone. Seeing her expression shift ever so slightly, he added in an offhand way, "A…buddy of mine. Colleague, really."

She nodded, "Putting in some after-work hours?"

"Something like that," Dean said distractedly as he looked over his shoulder toward the door. She studied his face as it turned away.

"Something wrong?"

"No, I'm just…kinda surprised he's not here." Dean checked the time again, making sure he hadn't misread it. "He's usually, uh…notoriously punctual."

"Maybe he's standing you up," she suggested with a grin. She noticed the man darken, staring into his beer as he took a long drink, and her quirked smile slackened. When he gave no reply save for a subtle biting of his lip, she offered in a casual tone, "Traffic can be a bitch sometimes. It's only 5 after."

"Yeah…" He looked off toward the door again, his voice far off.

* * *

Castiel looked up to the awning covering the bar doors, the ones he was supposed to have walked through minutes ago, the doors through which Dean had entered and was waiting for him, now five—he pulled out the pre-paid flip phone—going on _six minutes_ past their rendezvous agreement. He huffed, glancing at the Impala that sat as the nearly sole occupant in a small parking lot, and swallowed as he knew the owner of it sat and waited inside. For him. _After their established time._

He frowned, and with resolve he marched toward the door.

 _"Be late."_

He heard the echo of Percy's voice like a command, and caught himself mid-stride. He turned on his heel, as he had a hundred times in the last six minutes, and paced back around the corner of the brick building, away from the doors that beckoned him.

 _Ten minutes,_ Castiel said resolutely to himself, staring into his open palm thoughtfully.

 _"You really wanna get him in the palm of your hand?"_

He assumed it was a phrase he didn't understand, but wondered if maybe Dean would put a part of himself physically into Castiel's hand were he properly aroused by his tardiness. Though the possible correlation between those two actions escaped him, he flushed at the imagery and clenched his hand closed. A pop of color past his thumb caught his eye and he looked to the shrub billowing out from the base of the building, obliged for a distraction.

Bright red roses in full bloom spotted the dense bush and Castiel drew to them, tracing his forefinger along the soft ridge of a petal. He crouched down, grasping a particularly large red rose between the thorns poking out along its stem, and plucked it from the bush. He turned it over and examined each of its sides, deeming it flawless, and then looked again at the flip phone as he stood straight.

 _Eight minutes._

Close enough.

* * *

"So what kind of …work do you do?"

"Ah, nothing worth mentioning," Dean said into his beer. Having no other bar occupants, the bartender seemed entirely satisfied at her post leaning against the wood top, endowing her full attention to the man on the other side. He tried to avoid her piercing hazel gaze, but found a certain solace in their distraction from his continued solitary state.

"I'd hate to bore you with the details," he said convincingly, taking another sip.

"If you say so." Her easy smile never faltered, and she allowed only the breadth of a few seconds pass before quirking her eyebrow and letting an exaggerated dismay coat her question, "You're not going to have… spreadsheets all over my bar, are you?"

"No, no, we were just meeting here," Dean chuckled. He couldn't help it—her attention was flattering and she was becoming more gorgeous as the minutes ticked by. He cast one last glance over his shoulder and mumbled regretfully, "Though it looks like… might just be me."

 _So he had some time alone and thought better of it._ Dean nodded to himself, swallowing and crossing his arms against the bar top. _The guy's allowed to change his mind. It's fine._ He was thinking better of it himself. I mean what did he think, that they were actually going to pull off a normal kind of night, just two guys—no, a man and a supernatural being—just palling around like in some kind of independent French film? He bit his lip. No, this was better. This was normal. And there was a beautiful girl raising that flirty eyebrow at him again.

"How ever will you pass the time?" She asked playfully.

"Oh, I'm sure I'll think of something." He shrugged, sucking in a breath through his teeth with a wince, "But that means you might be stuck with me..."

"Oh no," her grin widened and she leaned in closer, " _Anything_ but _that._ "

The sound of the opening door drew her eyes past him, and Dean turned over his shoulder to follow her gaze to the newcomer.

Framed in the doorway, he stood still with arms clasped behind his back, slowly surveying the room. Dean's smirk faded from his face as his body angled away from the bartender, who opened her mouth to say something else, and was met only with the back of Dean's head.

As Castiel's eyes scanned across the expanse of the room, Dean's scanned over him, taking in the sight of a Castiel with a much different look than the one he came to know as his usual—his _only_ —way of looking. They met eyes from across the bar, and as Castiel approached, Dean couldn't help his bewildered expression which ran over the fitted sweater, the blue bow tie, the suddenly normal-ness of Castiel.

Not normal.

 _Handsome_.

"Hey…Cas," the words drifted uncertainly from the man, who couldn't tear his eyes away. It was odd. He looked… _good_.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel replied evenly, attempting to keep his expression neutral as he analyzed the look of confusion across Dean's face. The girl on the other side of the bar leaned against the wood top, her glance flicking between the two of them.

"Hey there," she intruded, and both turned to her as if suddenly aware of her presence. She regarded Castiel as she spoke, but her look darted to Dean afterward, "Can I get you a drink?"

"I'm fine."

The bartender nodded and swiped up a nearby towel, going to work on a surface that suddenly required her attention, stealing a glance at the two of them and catching Dean's gaze drifting down the length of the newcomer's body.

 _Colleagues, huh?_

Dean seemed to break from his trance with a clearing of his throat and picked up his still half-full beer. He looked down at the golden liquid as he said into the glass nonchalantly, "You're late."

Castiel flushed red, searching frantically for an explanation. He hadn't come up with one, and he didn't imagine Dean would react kindly to being told it was to assert dominance over him. He clutched his hands behind his back and brightened, feeling a thorn dig into his thumb.

Looking Dean dead in the face, he brought the red rose he had plucked from the bush out in front of him and set it deliberately on the bar top between himself and Dean. Dean halted mid-sip of his beer, and the bartender paused her wiping as all eyes were on the rose. Except for Castiel's. They were on Dean.

"That's, uh…" Dean's beer slowly lowered to rest against the bar top, and his eyes tore away from the flower reluctantly to Castiel, who offered a blinking and a swallow as his only explanation.

The bartender eyed the both of them, her bemusement melting into a smirk.

"I'll get your check."

Dean turned his face her direction but refused to meet her eye. His cheeks were rouged scarlet.

Castiel studied his expression—a tightness of jaw and widening of eyes that spoke as though he had presented Dean with an animal carcass instead of a flower. He hadn't accepted it, and Castiel's shoulders sank imperceptibly as he considered a second misstep of the evening—and it hadn't even started. Dean's eyes avoided the rose, the angel, and especially the bartender as she set a slip of paper in front of him.

"You two have fun on your…meeting," she said cordially, a hint of a tease seeping into it.

"Thanks," Dean mumbled, filing cash onto the ticket. He threw back the rest of his beer and stood, turning his back on the bar, the girl, and the rose.

With a clench of his jaw, he stopped. A staunch moment of deliberation passed, and then with a faint sigh he shifted, reaching back his arm. Dean gruffly closed his hand around the stem of the flower, turning and striding hastily to the door with it clutched irreverently in a fist at his side.

"Let's go," he muttered beneath his breath.

Castiel smiled, and followed.


	28. Chapter 28 - The Song

"I thought you might have changed your mind," Dean said as he arrived at the car. Instead of taking his position behind the wheel, Dean strode past the driver's side door to the rear of the Impala.

"I apologize for arriving late," Castiel mumbled as he followed. He was unsure whether that part of the plan was effective, but noticed Dean did seem somewhat agitated, which, he surmised with some puzzlement, was the goal. Castiel paused at the passenger's side door, unsure of whether to get in, then met Dean behind the car as he was raising the trunk and propping it open.

"Well, you arrived in style," Dean admitted as he dug into a bag at the side of the trunk. "At this point you're out of my league."

Castiel cocked his head, watching as Dean pulled three ties from the bag, and in turn raised them comparatively against his shirt.

"What are you doing?"

"I didn't know we were going Sunday Best." Dean decidedly tucked two of the ties into the bag, draping the other around his neck as he buttoned up his plaid shirt. "Can't have you showing me up, can I?"

Castiel looked down at his new clothes and smiled, knowing at least part of Percy's plan had worked. Still, he couldn't help himself asking, "I am adequately dressed for the occasion?"

"You look damn good, Cas." Dean smirked as he worked the tie around his collar, the deep blue of it matching well against the thinner navy lines of his plaid shirt. "Though… I mean, where'd you stash the trench? Not rid of it entirely, are you?"

In less than a blink, Castiel vanished and reappeared, holding a brown bag. Dean smiled at his own whisper of relief, taking it from him and stowing it in the trunk of the car. Somehow, the trench coat seemed a _part_ of Castiel, and he was a little surprised to realize he would miss it were Castiel to abandon it altogether. Dean dropped the lid of the trunk closed with a thud.

"Alright, stud, get in."

"Where are we going?"

"Next town over. There was a burger joint I wanted to try, but…" Dean stared off down the road, then concluded after a moment, "The way we look, might have a change of plans."

—

Now the black Impala coasted along a grey bridge of asphalt that lengthened ahead of them between stretches of orange and tan desert, fading into the horizon on either side. They seemed to be the sole travelers along the vast track of road, the bends of which were few and far between.

Dean's fingers slapped the ridge of the steering wheel in time with the beat, his lips mouthing the words that wailed above a searing guitar riff as they cruised down the highway.

 _Knock, knock, knockin' on Heaven's door…_

 _Knock, knock, knockin' on Heaven's do-o-o-o-or…!_

Castiel squinted at the buttons and knobs of the dashboard that Dean had mashed and turned before finding satisfaction with a particular station, and tipped his head to watch Dean lip sync like the star of his own personal music video. Dean was nodding his head to the downbeat of the song when he caught Castiel's pensive look.

"What, don't like Guns 'N Roses?"

Castiel's brow scrunched as he studied the radio intensively.

"Why does this man want access into Heaven?"

"Obviously because he doesn't know there's nothing but dicks on the other side." Dean's lip quirked, and he added, "No offense."

"Why doesn't he attempt to break it open?"

Dean chuckled. "There are some walls you can't break through, Cas."

 _That cold black cloud is…comin' down_

 _Feels like I'm knockin' on Heaven's door…_

Castiel's head tilted to the side, perplexed. Surely a human's power would be no match against a heavenly gate, but Castiel found himself mentally measuring his own strength against various types of doors, and concluded the vast majority he could obliterate by force should the need arise. He shrugged, eyes trailing out the window as his response held a touch of criticism, "I would think by now he'd have figured out knocking wasn't going to work."

Dean gave another light laugh, "You never wanted something you couldn't get to? There's no reason in it."

Failing to see the connection between the lyrics and Dean's question, Castiel stayed silent. Dean caught his befuddled expression and sighed, turning his attention back to the road outstretched before him.

"It's a song, Cas. A _classic._ To his credit, Dylan wrote it—but in my opinion, Axl rocks it better," he explained as he glanced back to the passenger who sat puzzled in his seat. "What, they don't have music in heaven?"

Castiel was quiet a moment.

"God did endow certain archangels with instruments."

"Yeah?" Dean raised a brow, "They know how to rock 'em?"

"They were powerful weapons used in waging war," Castiel replied evenly. "Most are locked in a vault to keep from falling into the wrong hands."

"Some say Slash's _Gibson Les Paul_ is a weapon—Listen to this," Dean grinned as he cranked the volume, steering with the back of his left hand as he gripped an invisible neck with his fingers curled in, the thumb of his right hand flicking in a strumming motion at his hip in time with the ululation of the electric guitar solo. Deans face contorted to mouth "wah, wohw" along with the wails of the notes, and Castiel's glance flicked between him and the road extended ahead.

When the solo descended into an easy beat, Dean dropped his air guitar, hands finding the wheel with an amused smile playing on his lips. Castiel's mouth drew a flat line in thought.

"But if there were a conceivable door to Heaven that would allow humans into—"

"Dude, it's not about picking it apart and analyzing what it means." Dean cast a weary look at the angel, then reached out and turned the volume down to a reasonable level. "It's _art_. It's about _feeling_ it. Experiencing the music, y'know? Just listen."

 _Knock, knock, knockin' on Heaven's door…_

 _Hey, hey, hey-hey-yeah._

The words were the same, but the singer was joined by the voice of a chorus, almost reminiscent of a church choir in their call. Castiel sat obediently in the passenger's seat, head titled to the side as if an ear cocked toward the radio would imbue him with the power to feel whatever it was he was supposed to be feeling. He stared forward, concentrating, willing himself to be affected by the music the way Dean was. To _feel_ it.

 _Knock, knock, knockin' on Heaven's door…!_

 _Mmmmm, yeah…!_

 _Knock, knock, knockin' on Heaven's do-o-or!_

When nothing striking happened, he sighed, asking with confusion mixed with slight frustration, "And what am I supposed to be "experiencing?""

"You don't get it," Dean said gently, giving him a sideways look that almost spoke of pity. "If I have to explain it, you'll never know."

With that, Dean turned the volume back up, nodding in time and singing along with the chorus that continued on.

 _Knock, knock, knockin' on Heaven's door…!_

Castiel pursed his lips, staring forward and letting the music fill his head. He loved humans for their ability to create art, to express themselves in a material manifestation, but it never occurred to him to try to understand any of it.

 _"You never wanted something you couldn't get to?_ "

Castiel knew what it was like to be locked out of Heaven—he had rebelled, been cut off at one point, with seemingly no hope of return. But regaining his position as a soldier in that realm was not something he sought, not now. He had made his choice: he had sided with humanity. And for what?

 _Knock, knock, knockin' on Heaven's do-o-or!_

He looked to the driver's side, where the man sang with that raw abandon of not caring what he sounded like. Castiel couldn't help but smile at his clear enjoyment of the music, the sight of Dean's absorption into his own world—the one Castiel longed to be a part of. His voice sounded like surrender, like freedom as it crooned along with the chorus that echoed on. He wished he could understand what the man was feeling, what sensations washed over him as he experienced this song—and to feel them too. But Castiel was on the outside, as helpless outside of Dean's thoughts as the man in the song who stood rapping his fist against an impenetrable barrier.

True, some walls he couldn't break through after all.

With a start, he blinked, staring into the dashboard as the realization hit him.

 _Knock, knock, knockin' on Heaven's door…!_

 _Hey, hey, hey-hey, yeah_

It wasn't Heaven's door through which Castiel was seeking entrance. He was knocking at Dean's. The one that guarded his heart.

Castiel's glance flicked to the man who sang on beside him, and then drifted to the dashboard, where the red petals of a rose shifted against the black vinyl with a slight curve of the road. The sight of it there made his heart rise in time with the swelling of the chorus, whose voices soared as the music faded from beneath the words, swirling around his head and lifting his chest with a hope. Castiel smiled.

 _Knock, knock, knockin' on Heaven's door…!_

 _Yeah-yeah-ye-ye-yeah…_

He might have understood the music after all.


	29. Chapter 29 - The Swank

_(( A/N: I liiiive! Thank you for your patience, as it took me the longest to finish this bad-boy than I've taken on a chapter since I started. But if it makes up for it, this ones a little longer than average (-woohoo! winkwink-). I've been writing oddly out of order, so updates on this stretch will probably be sporadic. Stick with me, enjoy, and if you do, please review! Thank you so much for reading! ))_

* * *

Both climbed from their respective sides of the Impala, the faint melody of string instruments wafting in greeting as the men approached a large set of double mahogany doors. Soft, dim light barely penetrated the chiffon red curtains draped across the tall windows along the building's front, and the path to the entrance was lit by short ground lights.

Castiel followed as Dean reached for the handle, pulling the door open and stepping aside to allow room for the other to pass. Castiel paused, and at Dean's gesture, entered first. In the foyer, a second door separated them from the dining room inside and Castiel didn't hesitate to pull it open, stepping aside and gesturing in imitation for Dean to enter. Dean stopped, brow furrowing at Castiel before a voice from inside called to them.

"Good evening, gentlemen," the host addressed them with a politeness that betrayed a slight odd quirk of his brow as he observed Dean hesitating in the doorway. Drawing his eyes from Castiel, Dean shoved a hand in his pocket and stepped forward, pursing his lips in a smile to the host.

"Hey," Dean greeted informally, receiving another subtle raise of the brow.

"Two for dinner this evening?"

"You betchya."

The host gave a slow blink, regarding the both of them with aloof observation as he gathered menus and turned in toward the dining room.

"Right this way."

Dean took the lead behind the host with Castiel trailing behind as they were shown to a candlelit table nestled in a corner of the dining room. Dean claimed the chair facing the wall where a giant, ornately bordered mirror hung grandly between two sconces. Castiel settled between them across from Dean as the host deposited menus into their hands.

Once the host had left, Dean muttered into the crook of his menu, "I'm surprised you didn't try to pull my chair out."

Castiel blinked at him, holding his menu open, but paying it no mind.

"Why would I do that?"

"I don't know, you tell me," Dean peeked over his menu at him, "You're the one pulling out the Swayze moves."

Castiel straightened somewhat, an air of pride in his shoulders. "You like Patrick Swayze."

Dean sighed, suppressing a smirk. Castiel's induction into the world of pop-culture was minuscule, but oddly specific and clearly of Dean's impact. "Yeah, I do. That's not the point."

"What is the point?" Castiel inquired with a tilt of his chin. He thought the point had been a compliment.

"The flower, the door, the— the—" Dean shrugged, setting his menu down. "I don't know where you got the idea you had to—" he huffed, not finding the words, "You don't have to do all that."

Castiel watched Dean's thumb tap against the metal-plated corner of the leather-encased menu.

"Does it make you uncomfortable?" he asked.

"What?"

"My wooing you."

The tapping stopped as Dean snickered, "Is that what you call it?"

"Yes."

"Where did—…Nevermind." Dean sighed again, unable to hide the smirk tugging at his lip as he looked away. "No, it's fine. But not necessary. I don't expect you to be Don Juan, here, Cas. Just be yourself."

Castiel considered this. Percy had suggested something similar, though the concept of 'being oneself' seemed redundant and perplexing.

"Your own dorky, awkward self," Dean added under his breath.

Castiel blinked, his shoulders sinking into their usual slack.

"I thought for a moment you were complimenting me."

"Well, that's about as close as I get."

Dean pretended not to see Castiel's subtle smile as he lifted the menu in front of his face.

"Good evening, gentlemen."

Dean glanced up at the approach of a waiter whose stark white tie stood out against the crisp black shirt and slacks he wore, white cloth draped uniformly over his wrist. He continued, standing straight at the side of the table, "I hope the evening has treated you well thus far. Is there a special occasion that you've chosen to dine with us tonight?"

Dean blinked up at him, sharing a glance with Castiel.

"Not rea—"

"We are on a date," Castiel piped up, his assurance covering Dean's ambivalence. Dean's lips pursed as he flicked his glance between him and the server.

"Excellent," was his only comment, the waiter's expression never faltering. "Tonight, our bottled wine features a Cabernet Sauvignon of the Loire Valley that pairs perfectly with the—"

"Sounds good," Dean interjected. "We'll take it."

The waiter hesitated, mouth poised to continue. He decidedly closed it with a curt nod. "Very good, sir."

At his exit, the boys looked across the table at one another briefly, before Dean's eyes wandered around the room.

"Swanky place, huh?" His thumb resumed tapping lightly against the edge of the white tablecloth.

Castiel looked around through draped beads and velvet curtains that gave each table its own sense of privacy, hushed murmurs and faint tinkling of glass and silverware wafting through the room. The dim light of each table flickered with short candle on the white table cloths, imparting a much softer ambiance than the stark glare of fluorescent lights—the typical atmosphere of the burger joints he often accompanied the boys in if ever he was present while they ate.

"It's nice," Castiel agreed, sensing in the silence Dean was waiting for a reply.

"Nice," Dean huffed. "The tablecloths have a higher thread-count than my sheets."

Castiel looked down, caressing the edge of the tablecloth between his thumb and forefinger. It did feel soft.

"Perhaps you can take it back to the room with you, if it would be more comfortable to lay on."

Dean laughed, not too loudly, but at a volume above the consensus of the room, drawing a few curious glances.

"That's some homeless-guy level thinking right there," he chuckled, and at the subtle pained shadow cast over Castiel's look, Dean immediately shifted, clearing his throat. Having chosen to side with humanity, Castiel had torn himself from the good graces of heaven and was, in a sense, without a home. Dean spoke hastily without thinking to cover his blunder, "I mean, hell, maybe we could just climb on the table and enjoy it from—uh—"

Castiel's expression shifted in an instant, and with the widening of his eyes Dean caught the implication of his own words, cutting himself off. He flushed red and looked away. Castiel leaned in slightly, speaking in a low voice.

"I don't feel that would be acceptable here."

"N-no, I didn't mean—I was just—joking." Dean stammered quiet, the rhythmic tapping against the table becoming audible in the void. Castiel observed the twitch of his thumb for a moment, before regarding Dean with a newfound interest.

"You're nervous."

"What? Me? Pff," Dean blew air out his lips in an undignified burst, leaning back. Under Castiel's unwavering gaze, he faltered. "Well, I mean, I might be a little out of place, is all. Fine dining's not usually my scene, you know?"

"We can go somewhere else if you want, Dean."

"And miss out on all this …atmosphere? No way. You wanted the whole shebang, and this is as fancy as it gets."

Castiel tipped his head at him, speaking with calm assurance.

"I never required fancy, Dean. Just time with you. It doesn't matter where we are."

Dean stopped short, his cocky act dissolving in an instant as he stared at Castiel.

"Just be yourself," Castiel mimicked Dean's earlier request with a small smile, which the other man returned, visibly relaxing in his chair.

Their attention drew upward as the waiter returned, placing two stemmed glasses on the table. His manner was poised and well-practiced as he presented the label to Dean, who took a moment to realize he was requesting approval, and nodded. The server swiftly extracted the cork from the bottle and poured a small amount in Dean's glass, who blinked at it for a moment. At the waiter's gesture, Dean realized he was supposed to taste it. He cleared his throat, taking the delicate stem of the bulbed glass in his calloused hands, giving two crude swirls before tipping it back. There wasn't much, but out of habit he swallowed the whole taste in one.

"S'good," he mumbled with a tight smirk, resting his elbow on the table and putting his chin into the crook of his thumb and forefinger as he watched the waiter first pour into Castiel's glass, and then his own.

"Are there any hors d'oeuvre we would like to begin with this evening?" inquired the waiter once the appropriate amount of wine was deposited into each glass.

Without ceremony, Dean tipped open the leather binding of his menu on the table, flicking his glance over the page before letting it fall shut again.

"Shrimp cocktail sounds good."

"Excellent choice," the server remarked without inflection. "And for dinner?"

"We'll decide on that in a bit. I figured we'd take it slow." He winked at Castiel. "Why not, right?"

"Of course," the waiter agreed, setting the bottle of wine on the table and taking his leave.

"Guy's a little stiff, huh?" Dean turned his head to follow the waiter's departure, a smirk sneaking onto his face. "What d'you think crawled up his butt?"

"You think he's infected with a parasite?" Castiel's brow furrowed seriously. "I didn't detect any—"

"Just an expression," Dean interrupted, taking his glass and watching the swirl of the wine thoughtfully. Talking with Castiel was like joking with a brick wall—if a brick wall could manage to misunderstand nearly everything being said. But his confusion over language amused Dean rather than irritated him, and in the casual setting of the fine dining atmosphere, Dean felt oddly relaxed sitting across the table from an angel that watched him with that characteristic attentiveness.

Dean smiled into the dark rouge of his wine, then raised his eyes to Castiel's along with his glass. Familiar with this idiosyncrasy of Dean's, Castiel obediently took his own, and they clinked the edge of their glasses together with a delicate _tink!_ , drinking simultaneously in a comfortable silence that settled around both of them as the candlelight flicked over their features. The wine on Castiel's tongue didn't burn the way whiskey did, instead imparting a deep, fruity flavor that felt dry in his mouth once he swallowed. He clicked his tongue twice, tasting all the delicate ways grapes aged into this complex liquid. Humans had been enjoying wine for centuries, and Castiel marveled that this was his first time to try it. Dean watched him take another experimental taste, knowing when Castiel went back for seconds on anything, he must have liked it. He smiled again, drinking a little more of his own as he looked around the room appreciatively.

"There was one time, when Sam and me were kids," Dean paused to chuckle into his wine glass, taking a sip, "It wasn't nearly as nice as this—but any meal not eaten in the Impala was considered a treat, really—Dad took us to some sit-in joint. Italian, I think. Sam was real little—he had this imaginary friend—that small, you know?" Castiel didn't, but he was focused on the way Dean's eyes went far off, past the red wine he swirled absent-mindedly as he spoke. "And we went in this place, and Sam begged to have his 'invisible friend' to have his own seat and stuff. My dad didn't humor him at all about it—told him straight up that it wasn't real—but the girl waiting on us—she was real pretty, too—well, she must've had the hots for Dad or somethin', 'cause she let little Sammy pull up an extra chair and all that." Dean grinned fondly, lost in the memory now as he took a drink of wine. "And Sam wanted his 'friend' to have some food too, y'know? So she took the kid's crayons and a piece of paper, and drew him out a little spaghetti and meatballs, and put it on a plate in front of the empty chair. Meanwhile, Dad's rolling his eyes and tellin' him to behave, not to bother her, y'know? But she didn't mind. She was real sweet on him. And Sam was just as happy as can be about the whole thing. It just made his day."

Dean chuckled out loud now, setting the wine on the table, his gaze still steady on it.

"And that always kinda stuck out to me, y'know? What she did for Sam. I think that's part of why—" he paused, glancing up at Castiel before dropping his eyes back to the deep red liquid in his glass. "…I uh, tend to be… a little friendly. With service folk." He flicked his eyes up and away again, briefly. "The girls, I mean."

Castiel watched him closely, noticing the heavy weight with which he delivered the point to his story. The slight squint to his eyes widened in understanding, and he studied Dean's face as he inquired carefully, "Are you apologizing for your flirtatious behavior with the barmaid? …Before my arrival?"

Dean held his gaze a moment before jutting his jaw to the side, his head dipping down between his shoulders slightly. He mumbled, "Something like that…"

Castiel's expression softened into something resembling a smile. He nodded his forgiveness.

"I know it's your nature to flirt, Dean."

"Yeah, well," Dean took his wine in hand, raising a sardonic brow into it with his smirk, "I guess your double cock-block meant it just wasn't in the cards for her."

As Dean tipped his wine back, Castiel's face screwed up at the phrase.

"It was never my intention to… _cock-block_ you."

Dean snickered, "I know, you were just—" he paused, expression turning contemplative. He looked at Castiel with a fresh attention, curiosity piquing in the squint of his eyes. "Say, Cas… Why did you show up in the first place?"

Castiel's expression opened, and immediately after he dropped his gaze to the table, unsuccessfully hiding a reluctance to answer. Dean's stare into his face mandated him to.

"I…felt you," He admitted after a moment. His glance flicked to Dean, and then away with an almost shy demeanor, "Call for me."

Dean felt his own neck heat up at the suggestion. He blinked.

"I'm, uh…sure I didn't." he muttered, a hint of uncertainty to it as he watched Castiel with a cautious eye.

"It doesn't have to be an actual prayer," Castiel explained gently, sensing Dean's discomfort. "I can detect a yearning… a desire, almost as palpable as an actual call. It's…subtler, but still detectable to me."

"Ah," was all Dean said. Castiel noticed he didn't deny it.

Both simultaneously decided to taste their own wine, sharing a silence punctuated by a gulp mirrored in both their throats.

Castiel was first to break the quiet.

"Was there a reason you were…" he chose his words carefully, "…thinking of me?"

"You might have crossed my mind, but…" Dean trailed off, leaning back from the table with nonchalance as his eyes drifted away. Truthfully, the idea of Castiel being able to _detect_ his thoughts of him sent his mind racing to...what else he might be capable of sensing. Dean stayed quiet, willing the rouge threatening his cheeks away, then shook his head as if meaning to clear it. He leaned forward into the table and met Castiel's eye with a decided shift in countenance. "Look, I don't have to be three sheets to the wind to want your company, alright?"

A small smile spread across Castiel's lips, both barely noticing the approach of a man clad in all black. Dean noted with some subdued pride the amount of times this evening he's managed to alter the angel's normally passive, impenetrable expression into one of satisfaction. It felt as if he were playing a game and winning at it, unbeknownst to himself how. Castiel's attention was now on the ornate glass placed in front of them, six large, pink, shrimp curved and suspended around the edge of the glass, naked save for the tails. A deep red, speckled sauce settled in the bottom of the cone.

"The shrimp cocktail for you gentlemen," the server announced, and then left without another word. Dean leaned forward, taking one of the shrimp with almost-delicacy between his thumb and forefinger, grinning.

"Shrimp **_cock_** _-tail,_ " he repeated like a kid sharing a dirty phrase on the playground, dangling the shrimp by the thin hard shell at the end. "But I've always wondered, which is the cock, and which is the tail?"

He wiggled it in the air before plunging the pink meat into the red sauce, raising his eyebrows teasingly at Castiel and knowing for certain his immature joke would be lost on him.

Instead of the blank expression that signaled his confusion, Castiel sat up interestedly, a look of sudden raptness drawing his focus to Dean's face.

"Are you referring to top and bottom?"

Dean regarded him with a raised brow, shrimp in mouth as he reached for another.

"What?"

"Because I am open to discussing an alteration to the seemingly established arrangement of our positions."

Dean bit another shrimp in half and swallowed. "What are you talking about?"

"I would like to try to 'top,' sometime."

Dean squinted at him. "You keep bring up this…'top' business, and I don't know what—"

"I'm referring to our intercourse."

The half-eaten shrimp dangled limp over the side of Dean's mouth, which hung open in the silence that followed. Swallowing hard, Dean recovered himself and darted his eyes around, hunching his shoulders as he leaned in and growled low just above a whisper, grasping the half-eaten shrimp tightly in his fingers.

"Remember that _thing_ , where we don't talk about that? _Ever._ Outside four walls with just us two between them?"

Castiel looked down, absently biting into a shrimp as a diversion to his own dejection. He thought he had understood the implication of Dean's question, and in his surprise and relief that Dean had been the one to bring it up, he realized he might have made a false connection. In the tense silence where Dean avoided his gaze, Castiel didn't taste the nuances of the sauce or the shrimp above the clinical observation of molecules arranged in a particular order. Dean poured himself more wine from the bottle, looking off as he drank a gulp.

"Plus, there's no way I'm a catcher," he muttered after some time. At Castiel's careful glance, he added, "I'm a pitcher, all the way."

Castiel sighed, unsure how the conversation switched to sports so quickly. Dean's face still held the tint of red as the waiter approached once more, standing at a professional distance at the side of the table as he presented the nightly dinner specials with an art of meticulous memorization. Castiel tipped his face toward him as he spoke, listening attentively while Dean fixated his stare onto the table, paying either of them little mind. He was clearly hearing every other word, at best.

The waiter finished his spiel and turned to Dean expectantly, having asked a question that didn't breach his dense contemplation as he stared absently into the table, his brows drawn together.

"Sir?" the waiter inquired softly, jarring Dean from his thoughts.

"Yeah, um, I'll do the steak and he'll have the, uh…second thing you said," Dean's voice returned from the far-away place he spoke from, and he looked up, suddenly attentive as a thought piqued his interest. "And uh, what about dessert, you got good desserts?"

The waiter blinked at him, Dean's clear disregard for the proper pacing of a meal throwing him momentarily. However, he recovered quickly with a cordial reply of, "We have excellent desserts, yes."

"Anything like uh, I dunno," Dean tapped his thumb against the table, pretending to think for a moment, "…like pie?"

The waiter's brows raised almost imperceptibly with his cautious inquiry, "Pie?"

"Dessert," Castiel mused out loud, straightening as if remembering something. Both Dean and the waiter turned their attention to him.

"Yes, sir?"

"I'm supposed to—" Castiel looked hard into Dean's face, attempting to cover his uncertainty with the confidence he was told to have. "—let you know. What you're having for dessert."

"Oh yeah?" Dean asked curiously, clearly roused from his distracted state, "Care to share with the class?"

Castiel's hand raised and hesitated a moment before slipping into the collar of his sweater, venturing to his left breast pocket and retreating with the small, square packet. He set the strawberry-stamped condom package on the table, where the two other men gaped soundlessly at it.

"Y'know, on second thought, we'll just take the check." Dean's mouth drew a tight smirk as he turned his face toward the waiter. "And a cork."


	30. Chapter 30 - The Drive-In

The crinkle of foil beneath his fingers paused as they moved to the dash, mashing rhythmically through sound bites of car ads, blips of pop music, and the intermittent fizz of static before landing on the intended channel. Dean rolled the volume down to a murmur as his attention returned to the burger in his hands, which he ate with a delight that betrayed the fact it was his second within the span of a single day.

"More my speed anyway," he said between mouthfuls, his chewing punctuated with occasional mutterings about stuffed shirts and their 'balls-ass expensive wine,' of which he popped the cork and drank straight from the neck. He offered the bottle to Castiel.

"I mean," he smacked, "does it taste better knowing how much it was?"

Castiel lifted the mouth to his lips. It didn't taste any different. Dean seemed to drink it with the same irreverence he regarded the 'cheap stuff' with, tipping it back and swallowing straight from the bottle.

They were surrounded by cars, the lot steadily filling with more as the minutes passed, all of which faced the large projector screen alternating between ads and animated shorts playing in time with the voices emitting from the speakers inside the car. The Impala held a position closer to the front in the sea of vehicles, its occupants having arrived early after ditching the restaurant and opting for the quick transaction of a drive-through joint.

"An American Pastime," Dean explained of the drive-in theater, eliciting an understanding nod from Castiel.

He had, in fact, wanted to experience 'human indulgences,' and the notion of dinner and a movie was just as fulfilling with a cheap burger in the car as the luxurious atmosphere of the restaurant they abandoned. Castiel actually preferred the intimacy of the Impala, which he dared not mention; but he knew Dean must share the sentiment, judging by his disgruntled mutterings about dark, crowded spaces and horny teenagers in a _normal_ theatre. He settled into his seat with obvious preference, drinking from the wine bottle and then wafting it toward Castiel.

"This caber-nay saw-veen-yawn pairs excellently with the hearty red meat of Beefy's finest ground chuck," Dean mused in an affected British accent. Castiel accepted the bottle from him, and Dean reclaimed his burger with a smirk. The ease at which Dean relaxed in the familiarity of the Impala drew an imperceptible smile from Castiel's lips as he watched Dean enjoy himself.

The atmosphere darkened with the dim of the stadium-style lights overlooking the drive-in theatre and Dean turned up the volume. The movie started, and from the first scene Castiel knew it was going to be one of those flashy, loud affairs with explosions and car chases and hard ripping music blasting all over it. TV, movies…Even if they didn't entertain him in the same way humans seemed to enjoy them, he liked sharing the space with Dean, who finished his burger and compiled the remains into a bag on the floor. Clearly, this film was the type that satisfied a primordial instinct to observe something shiny and moving, as creatures not yet passed a rudimentary state of evolution. Only a few minutes in, Castiel found himself squinting in skepticism at a seemingly impossibility of physics involving a man on top of a moving car racing next to a second car that had people shooting out of it. The feat was absurd to him, but he supposed humans liked it.

Castiel was pulled from his dissection of the scene as he felt a brush against his arm. He looked down to see Dean's hand there—not resting, but searching as his eyes stayed glued to the screen. At the contact, Dean met Castiel's look and pulled back momentarily, muttering something that might have been 'sorry' as he reached for the wine in Castiel's lap, his hand sliding over Castiel's as he did so. Castiel relinquished the bottle from beneath his fingers, watching as Dean popped the cork out and tipped it back. Dean's eyes remained fixed on the screen as he plugged the cork into the top and held it back out to the angel.

Castiel paused only a moment before reaching out, encasing Dean's grip around the neck with his own hand, in-tuned to the way his fingers hesitated a split-second before slipping away. Castiel pulled the bottle into his lap and stared down at it, suddenly preoccupied with the lingering brush of Dean's fingertips across his own. The slight graze of it piqued his interest, and the noisy car chase unfolding onscreen failed to claim it back. He glanced to Dean's hands, which had returned to his own lap, then looked back at the bottle. Mimicking Dean's manner, Castiel lifted the bottle to his lips and drank a little, less observant of the dry tannins coating his tongue than he was before as he offered it to his left expectantly. Dean accepted the bottle without his eyes leaving the screen, missing Castiel's hand as he took it. Castiel felt a small tinge of disappointment as Dean drank, forgotten as soon as the wine was offered back in his direction. Castiel mindfully wrapped his hand over Dean's grip, noting the moment's delay he took to slide his fingers from beneath his own. Castiel was rapt with curiosity at the spark that seemed to radiate from the light grazing of their fingers, and wasted no time in sipping from the bottle and holding it out once again.

Dean's attention pulled from the movie momentarily as he glanced first to the bottle, then to the one offering it. He quirked his brow.

"You trying to get me drunk?"

It was playful, but Castiel pulled back, not meeting his eye. He wasn't sure _what_ he was trying to do.

"No."

Dean smirked, the whole of his hand encompassing Castiel's as he gripped the neck. A moment of hesitation, and Castiel relinquished the bottle from beneath his fingers. The warmth of it sent a tingle up Castiel's forearm, and he realized the allure of his impulse.

Touch.

He was drawn to the sensation.

Castiel blinked, curling his fingers into his palm where the meager contact consumed his thoughts with its insufficiency. He folded his hands in his lap.

In heaven, touch barely occurred between angels. Castiel's regiment had combat training, but that contact was of a different nature, of course: violent, controlled, and purposeful. Connecting physically for the sake of contact was decidedly a human trait, and Castiel had observed it over the years with little consideration. He knew humans found comfort in touching each other to varying degrees, but angels had no need or desire to communicate in that way—with the exception of cupids, whose greeting was uncomfortable for the rest of the military-wrought angels like himself.

But the first time Castiel laid hands on a human, he had gripped the man beside him and raised him out of Hell, leaving a physical mark upon his shoulder—a red scar in the shape of a hand. The encounter also bore a mark on Castiel, but one of a different, hidden nature… a lurking spark within that flared at the slightest touch from the man he saved. Castiel had begun to notice glimpses of that spark at any touch—a hand on his shoulder, an adjustment of his tie, even a brushing of shoulders when he stood too close—only ever brief flashes that left him wanting more. A subtle, undetectable permutation until recently—it had grown into the thing that was now urging him to reach out and make contact with the man. To touch him for no other purpose than to _feel_ it.

But Dean was very adamant about his personal space…only allowing himself to cross that line every once in a while. And only while heavily intoxicated.

But that was before. Before they acknowledged anything more between them.

Before they were on a date.

Castiel glanced to the man beside him to see him peering with one eye down the hole in the top of the bottle, swishing it slightly back and forth. He seemed dismayed by his findings—the contents apparently dwindled to one last swig.

"Care if I kill it?" Dean asked.

Castiel shook his head, watching with preoccupation the dip of his throat as Dean swallowed the remnants of red liquid, and Castiel's only excuse for contact along with it. Dean plugged the cork into the bottle, resting the bottom of it against his leg as he covered his yawning mouth with his other hand, eyes not leaving the screen as he stretched lightly. Castiel tipped his head, wondering if Dean, too, was bored by the movie—a thought interrupted as Castiel suddenly found his shoulders encased within the crook of Dean's arm which aligned easily along the backrest of the seat behind him. Castiel held his breath, trying to read Dean's face, which stayed focused on the screen ahead.

Castiel could feel the warmth from the curve of the arm resting behind his neck, but Dean's face betrayed no sign of acknowledgement as his lips barely moved to ask, "Something wrong?"

Castiel studied him a moment longer—the attention which the movie seemed to absorb him—and he forced his own eyes back to the screen.

"No."

"Good."

Castiel felt the tingle of connection from Dean's hand around his right shoulder, the edge of the thumb there barely even grazing him. Still, the contact drew the entirety of his attention, and suddenly he couldn't see the action of the screen or hear the dialogue, though he kept the pretense of his eyes positioned in its direction; instead, he was fixated upon the slight caress of Dean's thumb which moved almost imperceptibly long the curve of Castiel's shoulder…up, and then down, in turn.

The five senses imbued to humans seemed meager rations as far as Castiel was concerned— he who experienced the universe much differently in his true form, a transcendent wavelength. But being on Earth, having these seemingly rudimentary senses as his primary navigation to the world, he was fascinated of all the avenues they could grant him pleasure. Just seeing Dean smile, the musk of his scent, the sound of his voice, the taste of his tongue, the…feel of his finger tracing rhythmically across the bone beneath the skin beneath the shirt he wore—the touch registered as if beyond an idle caress. Castiel was absorbed into it, perplexed and simultaneously obsessed with the tingle the trail ignited around the curve of his arm. He leaned into it ever so slightly. Did Dean even notice the effect it had on him?

Castiel glanced out of the corner of his eye to the other end of the car, careful not to give his observance away. He could smell the burger and wine lingering amidst the distinct scent of Dean's aftershave and the vinyl of the Impala. He wondered why his mouth felt dry, whether it was an effect of the wine or of this closeness with Dean. He wondered why the grip of a human's arm around him made him feel unlike the powerful celestial being he was. Why he felt so unfathomably human.

He felt a sudden pressing urge to act—to reach out, to touch the man beside him—but found himself paralyzed by the uncertainty of what, exactly, to do, and was undeniably sedated by the persistent stroking at his shoulder. If he moved, he might lose even that.

Castiel's mind raced beneath the violent whirring car chase playing on-screen, and he was suddenly met with the memory of the night before. The back seat, the corridor, the motel room…how easy it was for him to act on this desire for touch in the haze of drunkenness. He remembered how he pressed against Dean's lips without thinking, as he'd never done before. He remembered the feel of Dean's skin beneath his palms, trailing along the curve of his back as he breathed deep. The smell of his hair. The sound of his sighs. With what boldness he had managed to—

A hearty laugh drew him back to the present, a deep rumble in the throat of the man beside him who withdrew his arm, leaving a void in the wake of his idle touch as he chuckled at a line from the movie. The moment was over, and Castiel watched with melancholy the retreat of Dean's affection as he transferred the empty wine bottle to the hand that had been stroking him. Dean lengthened over the seat, setting the bottle in the floorboard behind them. When he straightened back behind the wheel, Dean became aware of the angel's eyes on him, seemingly startled by something he found in them. An obvious wanting.

"Oh," Dean mused quietly, settling back into the seat, asking with curiosity, "Did you want more?"

Castiel breathed in, surprised that Dean would ask—surprised he didn't know—that he wasn't aware of the tingling sensation Dean's touch wrought upon his arm. Castiel's reply was a sharp nod that proved more eager than he intended.

"Didn't know you liked it so much," Dean murmured, one side of his mouth curving up. Castiel looked down, his own version of a shrug.

"I'm beginning to understand the appeal."

"Who would have thought," Dean smirked, which relieved him. His eyes shone with amusement as he said in a low voice, "Well, it's your lucky day."

Castiel's eyes widened slightly with the jump in his chest, and as Dean leaned forward so did he, stopping only when Dean's face lowered past his, one arm stretched to reach between Castiel's knees. He blinked. Dean's hand didn't make contact as he dove beneath the seat, and Castiel's brow furrowed in confusion, straightening in realization as Dean brought forth from underneath the passenger side seating the sole surviving bottle of whiskey from the night before, unopened and untouched.

"Good ol' Cromdale," Dean waved it back and forth, looking proud until he caught Castiel's look. His grin wavered. "What?"

Castiel turned toward the screen, his features remaining rigid.

"Nothing."

"This is what you wanted, right?" Dean glanced over Castiel's blank expression, an amused smile crossing his own. "Didn't know there were survivors, huh?"

"I am…" Castiel's face hardened. "…surprised."

"Yeah," Dean scoffed, screwing the lid off with a crack. "I can tell that's your _excited_ face."

Castiel kept his expression neutral as he watched Dean dump the remainder of a soda from the paper cup out the window and replace it with a few glugs of whiskey. Castiel took the paper cup, staring into it. If he didn't drink it, it would give him away. What he had thought—

He felt foolish.

Dean gave a silent laugh with a shake of his head as the angel sipped from the cup, expression dry. Dean tipped the bottle back himself, just a little.

Both sets of eyes returned to the front, a much softer scene playing out as the movie reclaimed their attention. At least, Castiel pretended to watch as he brought the paper cup to his lips, paying mind to the dry heat of scotch down his throat and sensing the burn of it subduing his disappointment. The characters in the movie were speaking in hushed voices, the slow hum of a violin serenading the dark blue glow cast over the both of them as they came closer, beholding one another. The woman wrapped her arms around the man's shoulders, eyes shining and lips parting as she drew in. Castiel momentarily forgot his stung pride and regarded the movie with piqued interest, lowering the cup into his lap absent-mindedly. Not only was it a welcomed reprieve in the flashy noise that had been a constant up to this point, but Castiel found himself intrigued for the first time in the events unfolding on-screen, tipping his head and watching with intent as they came closer, meeting suddenly in a crescendo of music that swelled over the heat of their kiss.

Castiel watched, fascinated, forgetting his foolish mistake as the two continued, intwined and engulfing one another in the increasing fervor of their kiss, until the woman was hoisted around the torso of the man, who gripped her thighs on his either side as they traveled to a bed.

Stillness filled the car. Stillness, and silence, except for the sound of violins and hushed sighs radiating from the Impala's speakers. The characters enveloped one another in passionate embrace, the rhythmic motion of which drew a sudden realization from Castiel of what, exactly, he was watching a depiction of. The scene slowed, moving over curves of shoulders and expressions of ecstasy. Castiel tipped his head, noting their positioning—they faced one another to where they could look into each others eyes as they made love, rather than one behind the other. This new concept enraptured him and sent his mind whirling down particular avenues, thoughts from which he was drawn only by a slight vibration beneath his seat which began to register on the periphery of his awareness.

Castiel reluctantly pulled his eyes from the screen and found the source of the movement. Beside him, Dean's leg twitched up and down in a rapid motion as his eyes stared forward at the scene, his chin set in the crook of his thumb and his forefinger curled over his mouth. Castiel watched the persistent stutter of his leg inquisitively, observing how the habitual motion seemed beneath Dean's own notice. The small jitter reminded him of the fidgeting he had displayed at the restaurant, when he was nervous.

Castiel reached out and set his hand on the knee. The motion stopped abruptly. Dean's face raised out of his fingers as he glanced down to the hand on his leg, then the one it belonged to. At his startled expression, Castiel retreated, pulling back.

The hand that had cradled Dean's face dropped in one swift motion, grasping Castiel's wrist before it withdrew completely.

Castiel glanced up from the grip on his wrist, expecting to meet that hard barrier of Dean's eyes. That rejection. What he caught instead made him pause, their hands wavering in the space between them.

It was a small question, lingering behind the surprise of his look.

Their eyes stayed together as Dean held Castiel's hand, lowering it back down to his leg. Castiel blinked once as his palm landed solidly against the dark pants of Dean's thigh, feeling a small contraction of muscles beneath it.

Maybe Castiel's desire for touch wasn't his alone.

Neither moved for a moment. Castiel felt the barely detectable squeeze of Dean's fingers over the hand that pressed against his leg. It was enough.

He leaned in.

Dean stayed motionless as Castiel approached, not even pressing back into him as their lips met. Castiel watched him with open eyes even after they connected, the flat of his palm pressing lightly into Dean's thigh as he searched for a sign of reciprocated yearning. All he could find was that persistent question behind green orbs. Dean closed his eyes, and Castiel's followed. He pressed firmly against Dean's lips, sure that he wasn't alone.

Neither payed any mind as the scene on screen faded into another, too immersed in the spark that lit across the contact of their lips and warmed their necks as heat traveled to beat against their chests. Dean's hand slid up to the wrist at his leg as they kissed, and Castiel felt encouraged by the light grip at his forearm. He pressed further into Dean's closed lips, ready to receive the taste of their parting. But they remained shut. There was a cautious, hesitant manner in Dean's press against Castiel, and, too eager to resist, Castiel opened his own mouth, venturing a small swipe at Dean's bottom lip, mimicking the way he had come to learn was Dean's request for entrance. He felt them part to take in a quick breath, a response more of surprise than agreement, though Castiel took advantage and deepened into the kiss, encouraging Dean's mouth to open further with the flick of his tongue between his lips. He tasted the dry rouge of wine still lingering on Dean's tongue and felt the hand over his arm grasp a fraction tighter, almost halting.

He wasn't refusing, but Castiel could sense the inhibition in Dean—that resistance that stretched and wound like a rubber band until it snapped into the release of his surrender. As Castiel's compulsion drove him forward, he felt Dean recede, not escaping from the kiss but keeping it temperate in the way he leaned back. Castiel splayed his fingers, dragging the flat of his palm up Dean's thigh, closer to— The small noise Dean let escape into Castiel's mouth raised a heat to his neck that propelled him forward, Dean's fingers wrapping tighter in response around his forearm as he was chased into the car door's window, which met the back of his head with a thud. The awkward bend of his neck against it forced Dean's chin down, breaking the kiss as Castiel relented his pursuit. He opened his eyes, catching sight of Dean's mouth twisting into a sideways smirk that betrayed the odd question to his eyes.

"Now who's the horny teenager?" he muttered, eyes staying fixed onto Castiel's.

Castiel raised his eyes, blinking once.

"I'm thousands of years old. I'm hardly a teenager."

Dean laughed a husky breath as he raised his shoulders off the car's side, "Alright, horny grandpa then—"

Castiel halted his attempt with a hard hand at his chest, forcing the back of his shoulders against the door. The humor in Dean's eyes turned to surprise, and the question enduring in them caught the intent in Castiel's, which flicked down to Dean's parted lips. They held a tinge of pink where his stubble had worked against them, and a shallow breath drew in and out through the gap.

Castiel's left hand moved to the top of the backrest, and the one that had pinned Dean to the door raised to his face now, coming to graze his fingertips along the side of his jawline, which tipped up lightly in response. Castiel's advance was slower now, and he paused just before his lips reached the soft pink of Dean's. An invitation.

Dean didn't move.

As the sound of an explosion from the forgotten movie registered to neither of them, Castiel closed the gap, clunking the back of Dean's head to the window with force. This time, Castiel didn't allow him to break the contact, and the hand at Dean's face pulled him in, urging his mouth open to take in his tongue. Castiel kissed him roughly, pulling an impossibly docile sound from the man that shot a spark through his chest that paled the others in comparison. But this spark was different. It was wild, and a part of Castiel feared it almost as much as he desired it. He released the back of Dean's neck and wound his grip around Dean's leg, nearly throwing it onto the Impala's seat beneath him.

The shift broke their kiss as Dean was pulled sideways, almost entirely horizontal as Castiel hovered above him. His eyes bore into Dean's, that lingering question meeting with the demand in Castiel's. A part of Castiel sought to piece together the inquiry, to ask or otherwise figure out what it was. The other part, bold and dangerous and new, didn't care, and only sought to trounce that last modicum of stubborn resistance. To have Dean admit he wanted him too. To let him lose control, as he allowed himself when he was drunk. To make Dean feel as weak and impossibly fragile like Castiel did in his arms, his embrace, against his mouth, when he was no more an angel than a wobbly puddle. To make him call his name. To bring him to the brink of pleasure and make him beg for more, to lose all rational thought, as Castiel had when Dean was taking over him.

Castiel kissed him fiercely, with his message clear in the force at which he pushed into Dean.

 _Give in to me._


	31. Chapter 31 - The Frontseat

Dean's resistance was a feeble attempt as he writhed beneath Castiel, his shoulders pressing hard against the inside of the Impala's car door. Castiel wrapped a firm arm around the arch of Dean's back and yanked his hips down along the length of the vinyl seat with one effective pull, drawing a slight gasp from the man at the sudden shift. Dean laid flat on his back beneath Castiel, his knees bent on either side to cradle him between them as the persistent vigor of Castiel's mouth opened and closed against his own, his head turning to either side as if he couldn't taste enough of him. Dean opened his eyes, gathering the will to slow the intensity of Castiel's attack, and faded weakly to an unauthorized whimper that he couldn't accept came from his own throat. He closed his eyes again. His hands pressed of their own accord against Castiel's sides over the sweater, sinking into the slight divots above his hips. Castiel's body lowered closer until the full length of him pressed into Dean, the ardor of his kiss infiltrating the rest of his frame into motion which rocked in rhythm with his tongue lashing against Dean's tongue, and his lips pulsing hard against Dean's lips. Dean became aware of his body's response, unable to stop it, unable to do much under the sudden power of Castiel engulfing him in passion.

And not wanting to.

Castiel's hand ventured into Dean's hair, carding through the short tufts near the base of his skull as he pulled him in, his mouth stretched to take in all of Dean that he could. His tongue ravaged the space between Dean's teeth, flicking and sliding along his tongue hungrily, disregarding the sloppy mess he was making of both their lips. Dean brought his arms up on either side of Castiel, bending his forearms to grip at the curved back bowed over him. He grasped the thick grey fabric of Castiel's sweater, clenching folds of it in his fists, unable to decide between pulling him away, pulling him in, or pulling it off. Castiel decided for him, collapsing his hips into the crook between Dean's leg, obliterating any space left between them or hope of Castiel staying ignorant of the pronounced response protruding from beneath Dean's pants.

A sharp breath through Castiel's nose and he pulled back, lips glistening and swollen as he stared down at Dean. Dean looked back up at him questioningly, a shallow breath rasping through the gap of his own parted, wet lips as he caught the look in the angel's eyes above him.

He looked triumphant.

The red flush to Dean's face deepened as he turned his cheek, avoiding Castiel's look of satisfaction that burned hot down his neck. He was damn near smirking.

Unhindered and even spurred to new voracity, Castiel descended onto the exposed flesh of Dean's neck, which resulted in a noise that was equal parts startled breath and gratified moan as damp warmth connected to soft tendon. Castiel's hip ground into Dean's crotch as he nibbled the skin beneath his jawbone, drawing a guttural sound Dean couldn't subdue, and Castiel couldn't ignore. He was pleased with himself as he ravaged the man turned putty beneath his weight, against his mouth, encouraged by the undeniable length he could feel hardened against his front.

Dean wanted him—he knew it. Despite his last shred of reservation clinging to his pride; despite his flimsy attempt to keep a semblance of control. Dean's resistance was a farce, and Castiel could feel him giving in.

Dean's arms weakened against the length of Castiel's back, and his rigid frame slackened and let his foot slip onto the floorboard. Castiel's hand chased the movement, relinquishing its hold on the back of Dean's neck and following the leg that fell open. He pressed firmly against the top of Dean's upper leg as their lips worked against one another. Another pitiful sound fell out of Dean into Castiel's mouth, who spread his fingers across the expanse of Dean's thigh, drawing the flat of his palm down toward his knee, then dragging it upwards, toward his hip. Another, breathier noise punctuated Dean's throat, and Castiel turned his head to deepen their kiss as he advanced his hand, sliding further, tipping his own hips to one side to expose a space between Dean's legs. Between him and Castiel. Dean managed to break free of the kiss with a slight turn of his head, pressing his cheek against the side of Castiel's jaw as his breath came hot on his ear.

"Cas," he called, and it was all air.

"Dean," he replied low in his throat, and brought his open palm between Dean's legs, pressing into the protruding ridge beneath his pants.

"No, _Cas,_ " Dean repeated with emphasis, bringing his hand to grasp Castiel's wrist at his crotch. The imploring in Dean's voice gave pause to Castiel's advance, who raised his head to meet eyes with him.

"What's wrong?" Castiel commanded, his breath coming harsh in the sudden stillness of the car. He managed to restrain the lustful compulsion to ignore this, though his hand stayed at the throbbing mound between Dean's legs.

"This…" Dean began, strained. He trailed off, an uncertain burden darkening his eyes. Castiel's mouth slowly closed, his brow furrowing as he felt Dean's grip around his wrist tighten.

"This is wrong?" Castiel subdued any emotion from reaching his question, perplexed by the sudden block.

"No, it's—" Dean pursed his lips, exhaling a muted grunt out his nose. Castiel's hand was still on his crotch, palm firmly pressed against the obvious fruition of the activity. "This isn't what…this is."

Castiel squinted, looking down to where his palm lay rounded against Dean's front. He could feel the warmth radiating from Dean's swollen member even through his pants.

"This—isn't—?" He looked back up at Dean quizzically. "I don't understand."

"God, I can't think with—" Dean cursed, his fingers wrapping tighter about Castiel's wrist as he pulled the hand away from himself with a restrained effort. He exhaled in relief, sitting up as Castiel retreated to give him room to do so, his arm coming to hang loose at his side. Dean sighed again, a clearing breath this time as his head hung in front of Castiel, who sat back on his knees with Dean's other leg in between on the seat. "It's not…about that."

Castiel blinked, trying to look into Dean's face for clues. "Did I…do something wrong?"

"No," Dean answered quickly, meeting his eye briefly. "It's just—…"

"I apologize if I…overstepped," Castiel offered, looking down. The intoxication of power he felt was quickly diminishing, and in its wake the unease of embarrassment threatened to follow.

"No, Cas. You're fine." The gentle way Dean said it made Castiel believe him. Dean took another deep breath, staring into the tan vinyl of the seat's backrest as he spoke. "It's just…tonight isn't about that, you know? Not about sex. Not for me. Not tonight."

His eyes flicked to Castiel and found understanding seeping in.

"I meant it when I said that you were— …That I was serious about—…" Dean pressed his lips together, pausing. He cleared his throat, speaking with more authority. "A gentleman doesn't put out on the first date, y'know?"

Castiel blinked, meeting Dean's eye.

"Are you…a gentleman?"

"Damn straight I am."

Castiel found the slight smirk of Dean's lip infectious. He gave a small smile in return, which tempered slightly as he tipped his forehead pointedly toward Dean.

"So you don't want us to… _put out_ tonight, then."

The quirk to Dean's mouth faltered slightly, his tongue flicking over his bottom lip as he looked away.

"I, uh," he swallowed. "Think that would be…"

Castiel saved him the trouble of finishing with a curt nod of his head, glancing down to Dean's thigh he still straddled between his own.

"So, we can just, uh…" Dean shifted, pulling his leg out from under Castiel, who raised up on a knee and allowed him to withdraw from beneath him. Dean scooted back to the left side of the car, pulling his knees beneath the steering wheel as he nonchalantly used the heel of his hand to adjust himself at his lower abdomen. Castiel wiped across his moist lips with the back of his hand as he settled into his own seat on the right. Dean curled a finger up at the base of his tie and wiggled it a little loose, his hand hesitating at his face before he drew his thumbnail lightly across his bottom lip. He caught Castiel watching him, and gruffly scraped his knuckles across his chin, turning back to face the movie with a clearing of his throat.

He paused, noticing for the first time the pervasive silence filling the car despite the movie still playing on screen. Dean looked first to the volume knob, then to Castiel questioningly.

Castiel nodded to the unspoken inquiry, admitting quietly, "…I did that."

Dean returned his nod, rolling the knob on the dash to the right as the sounds of engines revving and pumped-up music grew louder, matching the cars on screen as the drivers engaged in a face-off stare-down.

"Hey, we made it back for the final battle," Dean pointed out with a grin, settling into his seat.

Castiel gave him a half-smile, ineffectively hiding his disinterest at seeing how the movie played out. Dean's grin only widened at that, then softened suddenly as he held Castiel's eye. They regarded one another a moment.

Dean raised his elbow and propped it on the back of the seat, giving Castiel a flick of his wrist toward himself. Castiel watched the motion, glancing to Dean to see if he understood the meaning.

"C'mere," Dean muttered with a roll of his eyes, opening his arm across the top of the backseat. Castiel used his hands to scoot in, meeting Dean in the middle as their thighs joined outer edges. The angel leaned in slightly, the entire left side of his torso connecting with the solid warmth of Dean's, whose arm hung around his neck, hand dangling loosely at his chest.

Dean's eyes lit up as the final action sequence commenced, grinning and making comments into Castiel's hair, who almost smiled each time the warm breath brushed across the tufts of his scalp. Castiel could detect the faint heartbeat of the man beside him, and heard it gradually slowing to that of a normal resting pace as the minutes ticked on. Dean's thumb stroked absent-mindedly against the left side of Castiel's chest, right over his heart, and Castiel closed his eyes. It was so small a gesture, but the way it soothed him made him feel…almost human.

Castiel marveled as white words scrolled up the black screen—he was actually disappointed that the dumb movie had ended. He discerned as Dean stretched and reclaimed his own arm from around Castiel's neck that there might be several reasons humans enjoy the movies.

"Welp," Dean yawned, pulling his arm behind his head for one final stretch. "That was fun."

Castiel had to agree.

Dean sniffed, slapping his thighs and turning the key to the ignition. Cars were pulling out in rows, and as the engine purred to life, Dean turned to Castiel, raising his eyebrows at him.

"Dessert?"


	32. Chapter 32 - The Dessert

"Thank you!"

"No, Thank _you._ "

Dean turned from the smiling girl and sweet smells pouring from the window, stepping toward Castiel with a grin and two full fists.

The stand was small and reminiscent of an older time, the once-bright turquoise and white stripes of the building's siding faded and worn from years well-loved. Castiel stood waiting next to a multi-colored column that spun beneath a large wooden sign. He regarded the objects in Dean's hands curiously as he approached.

"What is that?"

"What is it?" Dean asked, incredulous. "It's _ice-cream_!"

"Ice-cream?"

Dean gestured pointedly at the faded sign not two feet behind Castiel. Castiel turned and regarded it, missing the cone Dean held out to him. It indeed read "Ice-cream Parlor" in swirling letters.

"This is what you meant by dessert?" Castiel asked distractedly.

"Well, yeah," Dean was already working over the brown scoop atop the cone in his left hand. "What else would I have…"

He trailed off as both pairs of eyes drifted to the left side of Castiel's sweater, where a certain square package was still knowingly tucked in the pocket beneath it.

Dean grunted.

"That's not—" he swallowed the dollop of ice-cream still melting in his mouth and cleared his throat, squinting. "Do you even know what that's for?"

Castiel glanced up to Dean's eyes, then away. That it had a purpose other than a flirtatious suggestion hadn't occurred to him.

"Right. So when I'm worried about you getting me pregnant, we'll talk." Dean rolled his eyes, shoving the untouched cone toward Castiel. "Here. This one's yours."

Castiel grasped the ice-cream, regarding the rounded pink mound nestled within the textured cone hesitantly.

"It's not gonna bite you," Dean offered, watching him with amusement as he licked at his own.

Castiel brought the cone toward his face and sniffed once. He then opened his mouth and sunk his teeth into the scoop in one large bite, swallowing the mouthful whole. The next instant, his eyes were wide with alarm, a small sound of surprise mixed with pain escaping his throat. Castiel's teeth clenched, eyes shutting tight as he brought his free hand to his head.

"What's happening?" he growled low in his throat. Dean looked on with equal parts pity and amusement.

"You probably got brain-freeze."

Castiel's brow scrunched and he held the ice cream cone away from his body in distrust. Dean couldn't keep a chuckle down.

"It's unpleasant."

"Yeah," Dean licked at his own, a twisted smirk on his lips. "You went at it too fast."

"Why did you give this to me?" Castiel had it arms-length, as if it would bite him. Dean laughed again, drawing a glare from the angel.

"You're supposed to eat it slowly, and not with your teeth," Dean instructed, demonstrating with another lick of the cone in his hand. Castiel watched him warily, then regarded his own with suspicion. He deliberated a moment. Slowly, Castiel brought the ice-cream cone toward his mouth, advancing his tongue and making contact with one cautious swipe.

It was cool, but didn't hurt this time.

Castiel ventured again, a little more sure as he took a small amount onto the tip of his tongue. The milky substance melted in the warmth of his mouth, spreading a new, almost fruity, smooth taste across his tongue. He blinked in surprise.

Dean's smile softened as he watched from the corner of his eye.

"Good, huh?"

"It's…" Castiel squinted at the cone, searching for the word. The cream coating his tongue dissolved.

"Sweet?" Dean guessed, smiling. Castiel nodded curtly.

"But not disgustingly so."

Dean scoffed. He knew Castiel referred to his _last_ encounter with dessert. No one appreciated his convenience store pie.

"Yeah, it's what you'd call the _good stuff_." Dean's lip curled derisively as he pictured Sam's smug approval, " _All natural._ "

Castiel's only reply was another swipe of his tongue across the scoop. Dean attended his own ice-cream, noticing Castiel's lack of hesitation between each lick now. Another smirk curved across Dean's lips. He was really going at it.

"So angels like ice-cream," Dean mused softly. "Good to know."

Castiel gave a half-nod, obviously exerting a conscious effort to slow his consumption of the cold substance, lest he experience the unpleasant punishment of 'brain-freeze' again. Dean tore his eyes away from Castiel's enjoyment of the ice-cream, glancing to his own partially eaten scoop.

"Wanna try mine?" he offered, almost in a mumble.

Castiel paused mid-lick, his tongue on the half-devoured pink mound as he glanced to Dean's brown one. He closed his mouth and swallowed, nodding. Dean hesitated a microsecond before extending his arm toward Castiel, who leaned forward to meet his mouth to the offered ice-cream scoop. Dean lightly twisted the cone against the flat tip of Castiel's tongue, depositing a lump of the cream onto it. Castiel's brows raised at the stark contrast. It had a sharper flavor, bolder, leaving an almost-bitter remnant on his tongue. His immersion in the new taste kept him from noticing the raptness with which Dean watched him as the sample dissolved in his mouth.

"They're different." Castiel commented, missing the subtle parting of Dean's lips.

"Yeah," he muttered, pulling his hand back. Dean cleared his throat, recovering. "Mine's double fudge."

Castiel glanced analytically at the dark brown scoop dwindled to just above the cone's edge in Dean's hand, then curiously at the pink cream nestled in his own grasp.

"What is mine?"

Dean's lips twitched with a smirk he fought against. He turned his gaze cooly away.

"…Strawberry."

Castiel blinked. Dean resumed licking his ice-cream, brows poised in innocence as he looked in another direction.

"Strawberry," Castiel repeated thoughtfully, turning back to his cone with newfound interest. He went to work on the sides of the half-scoop that was left, absorbed in the way different intensities of flavor registered depending on where he connected his tongue to the cream. Licking with the side edge of his tongue magnified the cold temperature he felt, but yielded less sweet flavor. The very tip of his tongue could bring a small dollop right into his mouth to melt, which he liked, but he could get more by wrapping his lips against the curve of the mound and pressing into it. However, he still feared the attack of brain-freeze, so he quickly resumed various licking techniques. Castiel decided the most satisfying sensation occurred when he brought the whole flat of his tongue against the edge, rolling it in a long stripe up the side to coat the whole surface in sweet cream. He was engage with one such technique when he caught Dean's eyes on him, slightly wide as they beheld the cone poised at his open mouth, tongue ravaging the entire top of the mound. Dean's own ice-cream lulled in front of his chest, forgotten in his grip as Dean gaped soundlessly at Castiel. He had a slight redness to his cheeks despite the cool air outside.

Castiel slowly withdrew his tongue and closed his mouth, allowing the thick layer of cream to melt and slide down his throat as he swallowed the rest, tipping his head down sheepishly beneath Dean's stare.

"Am I…doing it wrong?" he asked, averting his eyes. He supposed his captivation with the sensation had overrode his decorum.

"No, no, you're…" Dean's voice came a little raspy, and the motion with which he shook his head was nearly a shudder as he closed his eyes. He exhaled deep and slow, finishing breathily, "…doing just fine."

Castiel studied Dean's sudden oddness, but the turn of his shoulder cut his scrutiny short. Dean stepped past Castiel, who surmised that he was intended to follow when the man continued on down the street.

They walked along in silence, passing by darkened windows of shops and cafes long since closed for the night, the orange glow from lampposts dotting their path down the sidewalk. Dean laughed when Castiel discovered with astonishment that the textured cone housing the ice-cream could be eaten too, and clapped him on the back, his hand lingering a moment longer than usual along the angel's shoulder blade. Dean stopped abruptly, arm slipping down off the curve of Castiel's back as he continued on, the focus of devouring the last of his cone stealing away the realization that Dean was several paces behind him.

Castiel turned to look back at Dean, wiping the last of sticky crumbs from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. Dean stood still in the sidewalk, facing the only building on the block exhibiting signs of life from within. He stared thoughtfully into the dimly-lit windows, the crack of hard plastic balls scattering from impact rising above the few muddled voices filtering out through the walls.

"Hey," Dean raised a mischievous brow at Castiel as he approached. "Wanna learn how to hustle?"


	33. Chapter 33 - The Game

A low-hanging fixture flooded light over the green surface, where a figure bent into it to arrange the many spheres on the table. On the periphery of the lamp's glow, another figure in a bow-tie stood by, watching. A few others scattered in clusters beyond, some illuminated by their own lambent source or hunched in dim solitude, but none of these payed any mind to the pool table nestled in the corner. A comfortable murmur wafted above the jukebox's serenade from across the room.

"Now what you wanna do is get all your balls in before the other guy, and then sink the 8-ball last."

Dean rolled the wooden triangle up and down the green felt, settling the topmost ball over the white dot on the table. Castiel watched the meticulous manner in which he shoved his fingers against the balls to the edge of the rack.

"And this is called 'hustling?'"

"No, this is called 'pool.' Or… _billiards_ , I guess." Dean lifted the triangle, careful not to disturb the balls cloistered together. " _Hustling_ is when you pretend to suck at it in order to get a fat paydirt."

Castiel squinted, studying the pool table from the other side.

"How does that work?"

" _Very_ well," Dean grinned, rounding the table and taking position next to Castiel. He set the white cue ball on the green. "See, you bet small potatoes the first couple games and play like shit. They _think_ you can't make a shot, so expectations are down, and about the third game, you raise the stakes. Bet something really good. They're so sure you'll flub it, it's a guaranteed take up. Then, you take 'em for all they've got."

Castiel's face twisted in dismay. What seemed like a simple game quickly became convoluted in human chicanery. Dean gave a sideways smirk, screwing a blue square of chalk over the tip of the long wooden cue in his hand.

"I'll break, show you how it's done."

Dean set aside the chalk and bent over the table, polished stick poised in the crux of his thumb knuckle. Castiel watched the deft motion with which he cracked the cue ball, splitting the triangle into motion as the colored balls scattered about the table. A red-and-white ball bearing the number '15' tumbled into a corner pocket.

"Alright, so I'll go for stripes," Dean explained, taking another turn. A blue-striped ball ricocheted off the edge of a pocket, missing the hole. Dean huffed, straightening and handing the stick off to Castiel, "That's the end of my turn, so now you go. You're solids."

Castiel studied the table, choosing a green ball as his first target as he approached the side, stiffly grasping the thin end of the stick in his upturned palm. He poked at the cue ball in one erratic swipe. Dean suppressed a chuckle, wiping his fingers over his mouth as the ball knocked into a cluster near the opposite corner.

"Alright, not bad for your first try," Dean smirked, taking the pool stick from Castiel and rounding the table. "But aiming is useful."

Dean targeted another striped ball, sinking it into a corner pocket with the expertise of a well-practiced veteran. Three more of his met their mark and disappeared into the table. He lined up a fourth, his tongue darting out in concentration for a difficult shot. Dean's wrist snapped and his objective bounced off the felt edge, rolling back to the middle inconsequentially. Dean cursed beneath his breath as he straightened, holding the wooden stick out to his opponent.

"Your turn. Go for a solid."

Castiel took the pool cue from Dean, squinting at the collection of balls cloistered together near the far end of the table. He stood straight and held the stick like an upturned pitch fork in his hands, angling the thin point toward the white ball.

"Hold on there, cowboy," Dean interrupted, putting his hand over the end of the stick before it met with the cue. He marched around the table as Castiel withdrew from his version of aiming, looking at him expectantly.

"You want to hold it— your back hand should be more—" Dean furrowed his brow as he directed Castiel, who shifted his hand uncertainly up and down the stick. "Here."

Dean grabbed the cue with one hand and brought his other around Castiel's right, sliding it further down the thicker end. He then slipped behind Castiel, hinging his fingertips at Castiel's hip and gesturing for him to bend by pressing a palm against his shoulder. Castiel descended forward over the table, setting the pool stick in the crook of his thumb in imitation of Dean's manner of aiming.

"You might get a little better control like this," Dean instructed, leaning over him and posing Castiel's fore and middle finger out straight, settling the cue between them. Dean stood behind, bending over him slightly as his right hand encompassed Castiel's at base of the stick. Dean pulsed the cue for him a few times, the thinner end gliding between the curve of Castiel's fingers toward the white ball. Castiel held his eyes intently on the target as the heat of Dean's breath brushed against the back of his neck. "Just like that. Now sink it."

Dean released his hold over Castiel's hand, which flicked the tip forward to crack against the cue ball. It connected with a solid, spinning successfully into the hole nearest to it. Dean clapped Castiel on the back, backing away a pace. "Awesome. Now you get to go again."

Castiel sunk another ball into a pocket and Dean whistled low at him. He was about to shoot for a third when he straightened thoughtfully, glancing at Dean.

"You're doin' good," Dean nodded in approval, grabbing his full beer off the tall table behind him and sipping. Castiel's forehead creased and he lowered over the table, his own beer untouched and forgotten. He barely missed his next shot, after which he handed the pool stick off to Dean unceremoniously, who gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

"Hey, you're getting it. You've got the idea, at least." Dean drank a gulp from his beer, setting it down and taking his place at the pool table. "Couple more games and you'll be a shark."

A striped ball found its target, and Dean lined up another.

"A shark?"

"Yeah," Dean closed one eye, getting a vantage on the sole stripe left on the table. "Another word for 'hustler.'"

The last of his balls clamored into the hole, and Dean called the corner pocket for the 8-ball. He celebrated with a fist-pump in the air as it disappeared.

"Boom!"

Castiel surveyed the table and his five solid-colored balls left on it, which Dean was already gathering into the wooden rack. He glanced up to Castiel's pensive look, his own face breaking into an easy grin as he commended, "You could've done worse. You at least got a couple."

Castiel nodded, watching Dean in a scrutinizing manner.

"I think I understand the protocol."

"Odds are, you'll do better second round." Dean fed a dollar bill into the slot at the side, pressing a button that released the captured balls into the gap below. "Wanna bet on this one?"

"I do not have any potatoes."

Dean's face scrunched in momentary confusion before widening into a light laugh.

"It can be anything, really." He turned back to the rack. "Let's do something small, so you're not too put out when you lose."

"Am I to lose?"

"If I were a betting man—which I am—I'd say so." Dean winked, missing Castiel's affirmative nod as he surveyed the bar. "How about, loser buys shots?"

Castiel dipped his head in agreement, handing the pool stick off to Dean as he rounded the table and gestured for it.

"Now since I won the last round, I break."

Dean loosened his tie and chalked up the tip, taking aim at the white cue ball.

* * *

A crack sent a cluster of balls scattering, various colors rolling unsuccessfully into one another and against the sides of the table.

"Wow, you really suck at this game," Dean commented from behind, taking a drink of his beer. He took to taunting very shortly after he gave up on helping, which only seemed to annoy the angel.

Castiel's face remained impassive as he rose from his failed shot, turning his head back over his shoulder. He tipped his chin down concurrently. Dean gave a breathy laugh and shook his head as he set the beer aside. He took the cue from Castiel and aligned it toward his next target.

"So much for _shark_ ," Dean muttered, blue tip meeting white curve which banked into a stripe. It bounced at a hard angle and rolled near a collection of solid-colored balls. Dean blew air out his nose. "See, if you'd get some of yours out of the way, I could actually get a shot in."

Castiel nodded, stepping around a corner of the table. He managed to get two in a row, missing the acute manner in which Dean studied him bent over the table as he aimed for a third. Castiel glanced over his shoulder before striking, catching Dean's eye which shifted quickly up to meet his look as his lips pursed in approval, impressed. Castiel concentrated back on his aim, and he clicked into the cue ball without enough force, causing it to knock into a solid ball inconsequentially.

"Oh, well," Dean sighed, the quirk to his lip betraying the disappointment in his voice as he took the cue. "Looks like you're buying me a shot."

The black 8-ball rebounded between the two felt corners of a pocket before tipping over the edge, falling into darkness as Dean stood up triumphantly.

"Alright, pay up." Dean grabbed the blue square of chalk and rubbed it around the tip of the stick. "I'll rack one more."

Castiel rotated on his heel and stepped toward the bar. He stopped, turning is head over his shoulder.

"What kind of shots?"

"Whatever you want," Dean shrugged, "Loser picks."

Castiel gave a nod and took two steps, pausing again. Dean rolled his eyes at his back, and when Castiel turned he had already thumbed two fivers from his wallet, which Castiel studied introspectively after taking them.

"It still counts," Dean assured with a wink. "Kicked your ass, that's all that matters."

As Castiel walked off, Dean claimed his beer from the tall table and looked around the room, surveying the other patrons gathered in corners or hunched over their drinks at the bar. It was a dimly lit place, but not too grungy, rather having a feel of an old-established haunt that the current meager occupants no doubt made part of their routine. Not overly rowdy, not posh at all, but a constant murmur wafted about to assure some semblance of life was left in the place. Dean sipped from his beer before setting it aside. He turned back to the pool table.

Castiel returned to find Dean occupied with the wooden rack, piling the multi-colored balls into its parameters. He sensed the angel's approach and looked up, his face falling as he stared at the two small glasses in either of Castiel's hands.

"What the hell are those?"

Castiel blinked, holding one out to him.

"Blowjob shots."

Dean gaped at the brown-colored cup topped with whipped cream, regarding it with suspicion even as he took one from Castiel's hand.

"You mean to tell me more than one bar does these God-forsaken things?"

Castiel nodded.

"They are apparently popular among _bachelorettes_."

Dean glanced around the room to the various other patrons that payed them no mind. He hunched his shoulders, grumbling as he held out his shot.

"Cheers, then."

Castiel opened his mouth to interject, then closed it in resignation as the liquid disappeared down Dean's throat. Dean grimaced, first licking the residual cream from his top lip and then, at Castiel's stare, drew the back of his hand across gruffly to remove the rest. He balked as he noticed the still full cup in Castiel's hand.

"You didn't take yours," he accused, making sure his mouth was clean with a swipe of his thumb against the corner. "If I had to drink that foul thing, so do you."

Castiel studied Dean's empty shot glass, and then his full one pensively.

"That is not the proper way to take it."

"What're you talking about? It's a shot."

Castiel came close to Dean, who instinctivey backed away even before the angel's hand met with his chest.

"What are you—"

Dean's step faltered as Castiel gave him a light push, the back of his knees bending over the solid frame of a chair in the corner behind him. He ungracefully fell into it, managing to stay upright as his rear connected with the seat.

"What the hell—"

But words vanished from his lips as Castiel bent to one knee, bringing the tiny cup over his lap. Dean went motionless as Castiel placed the shot between his thighs, dangerously close to his crotch, his body going rigid despite his impulses—lest he spill the thing all over himself.

"Cas—…" he barely breathed as Castiel came closer, kneeling before him with his hands on either side of Dean's upper legs to keep them closed around the glass. A part of Dean screamed to survey the room, to see if anyone was watching— but Castiel brought his face closer to the shot cradled snuggly between Dean's thighs, and he couldn't tear his eyes away. Castiel paused just before his lips reached the white mound of cream, tipping his head up slightly to meet eyes with Dean. Dean's breath hitched, and he stared down at Castiel, wide-eyed and transfixed as his lips descended over the opening of the shot glass, wrapping firmly as he lifted it from Dean's grip, and swallowed it in one gulp.

The act completed, Castiel got to his feet, depositing the empty glass into his hand and nodding resolutely down at Dean.

" _That_ is how you're supposed to take it." Castiel noticed the red tinge to Dean's cheeks as he stared up at him, mouth agape. "Carter told me."

Dean's eyes followed dumbly as Castiel turned to set the empty glasses on the tall table next to one half-full beer and one near-empty one. He became aware of the slack in his jaw and closed it, taking in a deep breath and willing the rouge from his cheeks. He tried to ignore the pounding in his chest, taking a quick look around the bar and meeting eyes with no one. The relief that not a soul seemed to witness the spectacle in the dark corner was eclipsed by the certainty the whole room could hear his heart beating.

Dean cleared his throat, pulled himself up off the chair, and attempted to regain his previous composure, grabbing his near-empty beer off the high-top and swallowing the rest in one gulp.

"Be right back," he muttered, stalking off toward the bar. His back to the angel, Dean pulled his tie a little looser.

He returned somewhat placated with a full glass of golden liquid, swigging from it before going to work racking the balls. He felt Castiel's eyes on him, and willed the image of him kneeling before him from his mind. Of his blue eyes turned up. Of his lips parting and inching closer. He gave a small shake of his head, concentrating instead on the configuration of pool balls at hand.

"What are we betting on?" Castiel asked, startling him from his thoughts. Dean momentarily halted the motion of rolling the rack.

"Hm…" he hummed, pondering, distracted. Dean kept his eyes down toward the table, his fingers curled around the inner edges of the wooden triangle as he muttered, "Well, it'd be more fun if there was a chance you'd actually win."

Castiel frowned. "I could win."

Dean chuckled at that glancing up to him, "Oh yeah? You think so?"

Castiel's definitive nod set Dean's mouth into a cocky curve.

"Well, you might try harder if we raised the stakes," Dean supposed, tucking the rack away.

"It is the third game," Castiel pointed out.

"Right, and maybe you'd step it up if we bet on something you actually want," Dean mused, grabbing the pool stick off the table and chalking it up with the authority of practice. He felt a semblance of control returning to him. Dean flicked his gaze toward Castiel before staring off, clicking his tongue in contemplation. "What could an angel possibly want…"

Castiel watched his mind work, offering no suggestion of his own. Dean seemed to ruminate and discard several options while bothering his lip between his teeth.

His eyes snapped up, wide with a startling thought. Castiel caught the glint of some deliberation cross his features as his tongue grazed over his bottom lip, then it vanished and his expression allayed to an even calm.

"Tell you what," Dean said, a sudden coolness to the drag of his words. He rounded the table, eyes glued to the pyramid of balls on the other side. "How about that little… _arrangement_ you mentioned."

Blue eyes squinted into peculiar slits.

"Arrangement?"

Green eyes flicked his direction, then away.

"Mmhmm," Dean murmured, rolling the white ball back and forth on the table beneath his palm. Castiel's silence admitted his ignorance.

"You beat me at a game of pool, I'll let you, uh—" he glanced down the length of Castiel, then up to his eyes—"…you know…"

Castiel cocked his head, searching his face. "I don't…"

Dean tipped his head forward, looking at him emphatically from beneath his brows.

"Try on… _top_ for size?"

Understanding washed over Castiel, and his stoic features unfurled. A light flush rose up his cheeks.

"Yeah," Dean bit his bottom lip in a lame attempt to curb his amusement at the angel's stunned expression. His voice was a languid, deliberate tease, "If you win, you can, uh… be the boss." Dean met Castiel's stare with a raise of his brows. "How's that?"

A tense moment of silence passed between them, eyes fixed in tightrope astriction. Castiel swallowed.

"That seems odd…" he eventually murmured, slowly, staring down into the murky carpet of the bar floor, "…to bet on a pool game."

"Hey, I just figured," Dean shrugged, a subdued mocking playing against the nonchalance with which he tossed his words, "Something you want and, hell, seems like a fair bet."

"I thought you didn't—" Castiel's brow furrowed. "…as a gentleman…"

"Hey—" Dean interjected, opening his palm, "Doesn't have to be tonight. Plus, honestly—" he leaned in, as if sharing a secret—"I'm not too worried about losing."

Castiel opened his mouth to reply, interrupted as Dean raised a commanding finger to him.

"And if I win, it's the last we hear about it." His tone held finality. "Deal?"

Castiel's stare tipped down to the green. The pierce of it threatened to burn a hole through the billiards top as he processed this proposition, austere and motionless in his deliberation. Dean held the pool cue out to him, drawing his attention back.

"Here," he offered. "I'll even let you break."

Dean looked so very sure of himself, his sly smile verging on impish. Castiel's face hardened.

"Alright."

Castiel took the stick.

"Yeah?"

Dean quirked an eyebrow.

"Yes," Castiel replied, curt.

"Alright," Dean's lip held that amused slant as he extended his hand. Castiel grasped it and they shook, solidly, the meeting of their eyes hooded in their own stratagem. Dean released his hold on Castiel's grip and sauntered around the table, spreading his arms on the opposite side near the triangular configuration of balls. He leaned in against the table, the certainty of his arrogant grin near devilish as it glowed beneath the lamplight overhead. "Show me what you got."

Castiel's eyes narrowed at his taunt, then shifted down to the playing field. He scanned the six holes around the table one-by-one, and appraised the triangled balls arranged together at the other end. His head tipped slightly.

"Is it pertinent I strike from here?" he asked, pointing at the white cue ball set in the head spot. Dean perked up, seemingly surprised by the question.

"Well, I guess not." He gestured between the two diamond marks along the wooden sides of the table on Castiel's end, drawing an invisible line between them. "As long as it doesn't go past those."

Castiel nodded in response, plucking the ball from the table. He cradled it in his palm as his blue eyes scanned in rapid lines along the length of the felt, calculating. Decidedly, he placed the ball to the right side of the table, nearly against the felt edge, and took position with firm confidence. Bent over the table, cue fixed between his fingers, Castiel's eyes flicked up to Dean, then back down to his target with intensive concentration. Dean crossed his arms and smirked.

The crack of the cue ball split the air with a sharp burst as the balls scattered, and the upward curve of Dean's lip slipped as he watched them spray across the table in chaotic force—save for two, three, four, striped balls meeting four corners of the table, falling into the dark abyss of each pocket. A fifth lulled teasingly at the left side, teetering indecisively before clattering into the hole. The smirk abandoned Dean's face.

"I choose stripes," Castiel stated, moving around the table with purpose. Before Dean could even process the validity of the situation, Castiel had flicked his blue orbs across the table and taken aim. The snap of his wrist sent the cue ball crashing into one of the stripes before it bounced off the felt edge, popping back to clip the curve of the other striped ball left on the table. The first met its mark and rolled seamlessly into the side pocket, and the last striped ball left on the table careened toward a far corner, spinning and eventually tippling over the threshold to be swallowed by the hole.

Dean's mouth gaped, brows screwed up in a jumbled contest of surprise, awe, and horror as Castiel gestured pointedly at a corner pocket, calling without doubt the final resting place of the 8-ball. When the black orb tumbled flawlessly into its destination, its roll down the hollow track inside the pool table was the only sound between them as Dean stared, mute with stupefaction, at the angel. Only one syllable managed to form between the rounded hole of his lips.

"You…"

Castiel straightened from over the table, the stern furrow of his brow relaxing into a victorious curve of the lip.

"I'm a _shark_."


	34. Chapter 34 - The Flirt

_((A/N: So there are fun things and not-so-fun things with writing off the cuff... a less-fun thing was trying to strongly suggest (read: force) a situation I had the idea for months ago, and having the story scream back: NO! ...Resulting in a near complete re-write of this chapter. But here it is! Hope you enjoy.))_

* * *

 _I made it through the wilderness  
_ _Somehow I made it through  
_ _Didn't know how lost I was  
_ _Until I found you_

Dean hunched over the shot in his hand, grumbling as he sensed the figure approach beside him.

"You cheated," he accused.

Castiel seemed struck.

"I did no such thing."

"Oh yeah?" Dean tossed his head back toward the pool table in the corner. "What the hell do you call that back there?"

Castiel blinked.

"Hustling."

"Hustle my ass." Dean growled into his liquor, "You mean with your…angel voodoo shit…"

"I used no celestial power," Castiel stated simply. "It was merely a matter of angle trajectory and proper force exertion of the—"

"Yeah, I _know_ how to play pool. I didn't think _you_ did."

 _I was beat incomplete  
_ _I'd been had, I was sad and blue_

Castiel took a moment to search his face. His dismay at Dean's grim reaction waged war with his smug triumph of victory, which had waned in the minutes following Dean's bitter dropping of the pool stick onto the table, in which Castiel concluded the man was not returning for another game and followed him tentatively to the bar. Dean was scowling into his drink as Castiel chose his tone carefully.

"I understood the concept of the game within the first minute."

"And thought it'd be funny to play me?" He bit back. Castiel winced.

"I thought you were instructing me on the more subtle matter of social trickery."

Dean shot him a look that might have been puzzled.

 _But you made me feel  
_ _Yeah, you made me feel  
_ _Shiny and new_

" _Hustling_ ," Castiel stated. Dean's mouth set in a hard line.

"Yeah, well…" he muttered into his whiskey before tasting it, "You sure catch on fast."

Castiel's shoulders straightened imperceptibly.

"You've said before I am a quick learner."

Dean's tone was still gruff with accusation.

"Yeah, and a damn cutthroat, apparently."

Castiel sighed, surveying the man on the stool. This was not an intended consequence of his win, and the fear he had inadvertently soiled the evening weighed like a cold, damp towel over his head.

"I apologize if you felt cheated," Castiel tried, a thin crease deepening in his forehead. It was the only give-away to his muted melancholy, at odds with the even gravel of his tone. "It was not my intention. I misunderstood the objective of the lesson."

Dean gave him a long look as Castiel stared back over his shoulder at the pool table, regret apparent in the length of his gaze.

 _Gonna give you all my love, boy  
_ _My fear is fading fast_

"Don't sweat it, Cas," Dean finally sighed, the hard edges of his voice diminishing somewhat. "It's just a game."

Castiel's glance slid to him. The question was simple, honest.

"Are you angry with me?"

 _Been saving it all for you  
_ _'Cause only love can last_

"Nah…" Dean waved the notion away. But he thought a second and his chin jutted to the side. "No, I'm just a little…" His lips pursed, and for the first time since his loss he met Castiel's eyes with something softer in his own as he admitted in a low voice, "I just…really didn't think you were gonna win, y'know? Else, I wouldn't have—…"

He fell silent, resigned. Castiel tipped his head knowingly.

"It's not the first time you've underestimated me, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean huffed a dry laugh into the glass as it reached his lips. "Remind me not to, next time."

 _You're so fine and you're mine  
_ _Make me strong, yeah you make me bold_

Finishing the drink, he grimaced lightly as he set the empty glass onto the bar top. At its clink on the wood, the bartender turned, ready to serve another.

"We don't have to uphold it," Castiel offered softly.

Dean nodded in assent to the bartender's silent inquiry, his glance darting to Castiel after.

"I thought it a peculiar bet to begin with, and under the circumstances—"

"Shht." Dean hissed, cutting him off. His eyes darted around and landed on the bartender who stood half-way down the bar, pouring liquor in a long stream into a glass. Castiel followed his gaze and lowered his voice.

"I don't think he is paying attention to us."

"That's the gimmick, Cas. The bartender is _always_ listening," He grumbled back, then touched back to an almost-normal volume of speaking. "And in any case, you might have played me, but a bet's a bet. We shook on it."

Dean nodded to the bartender when he set another shot in front of him. The whiskey raised to his mouth, brushed with a bitter-tinged question before it touched his lips. "What kind of man would I be if I went back on a bet?"

He sipped from the glass. Castiel considered a moment. "I assume it is considered dishonorable."

"Exactly. And I'm nothing if I am not full of honor." The smirk that flattened between his lips told Castiel this was not a sentiment he quite believed, but quickly his expression regained a more serious composure. "No, you beat me fair and square, so…"

 _Oh your love thawed out  
_ _Yeah, your love thawed out  
_ _What was scared and cold_

Dean cleared his throat, sensing Castiel's eyes on him, which were studying the ever-growing red creeping up his neck, distinguishable even in the low bar lights

"Well don't think you're cashing in anytime soon, alright?" He spoke with a harsh quickness that came a little too loud to the angel that was right beside him. Dean stared into his glass, twisting it into a circle on the wooden bar top between his fingers. His voice lowered to a less confident mumble, "We never agreed on a time or… or anything, and tonight's not—…"

The silence that followed indicated Dean was unlikely to offer more. Silence, except for the bright voice cooing to a synthesized melody in the background.

 _Like a virgin_

"You're a gentleman," Castiel offered gently.

"Sure am," Dean agreed, but his conviction was farther away. He threw back the rest of the whiskey.

 _Touched for the very first time  
_ _Like a vir-ir-ir-irgin_

Dean's face abruptly turned down the bar, and he called over the music to the bartender, who polished a glass methodically in his hands.

"Hey, Slick, can we cut the Madonna already?"

A light turn of his head was all the motion he offered, calling back, "It's not me, man. Jukebox is customer-run."

 _When your heart beats  
_ _Next to mine_

Dean's gaze followed the tip of his head across the room, where a woman in a cheetah-print top held onto the jukebox, swaying unsteadily as she crooned off-key to the song.

 _You're so fine and you're mine  
_ _I'll be yours 'till the end of time  
_ _'Cause you made me feel  
_ _Yeah, you made me feel  
_ _I've nothing to hide_

"Like a virgiiin!" she called. Dean scowled. She practically wailed with a suggestive sway of her hips as she gripped the machine, "Feels so good insiiiide…!"

"Yeah, well, someone oughtta tell her to knock off the crap tunes." He lifted the glass to his lips and, finding it empty, waved to the bartender in indication for another. His attention didn't turn to follow when he felt Castiel's presence withdraw from beside him.

"When you hold me, and your heart beats," the woman was leaning heavily on the jukebox with eyes closed as the words trilled out of her. "And you love me—"

"Excuse me," Castiel decided on addressing her after a few moments of wincing next to the wailing woman. She jerked from her trance, disrupted.

"What'dya want?" The snarl eased to a crooked smile when she turned toward him, suddenly unbothered. "Oh… _hello_ there, handsome."

Castiel detected the slur, the red eyes, the wafting scent of alcohol coming off her, and took a sub-step back. Drunks were less predictable.

"Hello."

"You wanna play a song, suugar?"

Castiel glanced between the jukebox and the woman. Perhaps he would have better luck choosing something Dean wouldn't mind, without having to insult the woman's taste in 'crap tunes.' Truthfully, his impression of most music was neutral—a fact Dean seemed to make his mission to amend—and the bubbly, synthesized song that now irritated Dean didn't bother Castiel much. Still, if so small a thing as changing the music could improve his mood, Castiel was willing to deliver.

The woman took an unsteady step toward him, one stabilizing hand remaining on the glass as the other reached toward him. "I got looads of credits in this bad boy. Here." She clutched a chubby hand around his wrist, pulling it toward herself. "You can pick one."

Castiel swallowed, stepping up to the jukebox but minding the space between them, the scent of hairspray and cigarettes like an assault to his senses. She guided his finger to the lit arrow buttons, and showed him how pressing one flipped the array of CDs to another page.

"What do you like? Fast and _hard_ , or long and slooow?" She teased, trailing her fingertips along the ridge of the machine affectionately.

Castiel ignored her as he scanned the rows of song names and album covers. Despite having listened to a great deal of Dean's music, there were few names of songs he recalled offhand. Brow furrowed, his eyes switched across the lists rapidly, searching for something familiar.

"You better pick somethin' fast." Castiel stiffened as he felt the side of her press into his arm as she cooed, "It's almost midnight, and I've got, liike, _three songs_ in the queue."

"What happens at midnight?" Castiel turned another page, focused on the task at hand.

"I turn into a puumpkin," she giggled. Castiel paused, shooting her an apprehensive look.

"Are you cursed?"

"With devilish good looks," she grinned, attempting to wink but instead squinting both eyes briefly in turn. Castiel resumed ignoring her, gaze fixed into the jukebox. She peeked around his shoulder, judging by the sudden rapt focus of his eyes that he had found what he was looking for.

"Which one?" she asked, and he pointed against the glass. She trailed a fingertip up his arm before punching in the numbers to make his selection, "Mm, you got good taste."

Castiel regarded her briefly with a nod, then turned away.

"Thank you."

"Hey—" she caught him by the elbow, "Save me a dance, wont'chya?"

Castiel's glance flicked to her hand around his arm, then up to her face, the flat smeared red of her lipstick twisted in an attempt at a sly smile. A dim realization that this might be what Dean referred to as 'flirting' was a whisper against the debilitating desire to flee her presence. He blinked.

"I don't—"

"It's such a special day," she implored him with her eyes, scooting closer, "…you will, won't you?"

He glanced back to the bar, and to the back of Dean, who sat oblivious to his predicament. It was one thing to recognize a flirtation—a whole other thing to know what to do about it.

"Special day?" he asked absently, willing Dean to turn and intervene with his boundless charm.

"Of course!" She giggled, then her eyes went wide with exaggerated surprise. "You do know what day tomorrow is, don't you?"

Castiel's eyes reluctantly slid her way, curiosity winning over the aversion to her attention.

"My husband won't mind," she cooed and licked her teeth. Castiel grimaced.

* * *

"You wanna drink?" Dean asked, feeling the angel return to his side. Castiel plopped into the stool beside him.

"Yes."

"Atta boy."

Dean grinned, missing the contortion of discomfort still arranged on Castiel's face as he motioned to the bartender. He had only been gone a few minutes, but upon returning he became aware of the eased slant to Dean's shoulders, the smile that found home more easily on his lips.

"Dean, what is—"

"Y'know I was thinkin'," Dean mused lazily over him, and Castiel figured he was beginning to experience that relaxed state between sober and drunk that Dean referred to as 'buzzed.' "We should take your ass to Vegas."

Castiel's face twisted. "Vegas?"

Dean shot him an incredulous look. "You've never heard of Vegas?"

Castiel shrugged. He settled for, "I've heard of it."

"Oh man," Dean grinned with some memory that lit his features in a way that tempted Castiel to rethink his impression of the place. His visit had stunk of demon deals on every corner, debauch and loss, souls sold beneath the scouring blare of lights and noise that never ceased. Dean seemed to remember a different experience as wonder coated his voice. "We gotta go sometime."

"And do what?"

Dean balked at him, whether from his abrasive tone or the stupidity of his question, Castiel couldn't tell.

" _Do what_? It's Vegas! Hub o' hedonism." A mischievous glint marked his face as he counted the possibilities, "Little bit of gambling, little bit of girls in feathers…"

Castiel didn't disguise the wrinkle to his nose.

"I don't see the appeal."

"Hey now," Dean scoffed, a mocking arch to his brow as he gestured at Castiel with his glass, "You can't _holier-than-thou_ me after what I witnessed last night. You're a closet party animal, and you'd have a blast."

Castiel opened his mouth to disagree—and fell mute with a start, brow furrowing into the bar top as the suggestion struck him. Dean was right. At least, partially so. With what a critical eye he would have disparaged the entirety of environment he had found himself at the night before—dancing, debauchery, indulgence.

And not _at_.

 _In_.

Amidst and intimately engaged with the humans and…enjoying it. Loving it. His eyes flicked to the man beside him, perturbed at his own exposure of hypocrisy, then down to the glass of liquid he hadn't noticed was placed in front of him. In all the years he had walked among humans, from the age of Dionysus until now, such scenes of celebration had him looking down upon the creatures that appeared no more than animals in those instances. Primitive mammals chasing fleeting gratification with no regard for the consequences. And he had fallen into the trap.

And he had liked it.

He swallowed, remembering the stifled room of thumping rhythm, the feeling of a sweaty arm draped carelessly around his neck as Dean leaned in to laugh against his skin, sticky and bare and hot. Castiel stared into the whiskey placed before him now, a light pink creeping up his cheeks.

"I could consider an amendment to my previous stance on such matters," Castiel muttered humbly, studying the glass. "Based on recent events."

Dean laughed, loud and jovial as he clapped Castiel on the back.

"Look at that. Jello shots, changing the minds of angels."

"It's more of the effect you have on me," Castiel admitted without thinking.

"Yeah, well," Dean's grin faltered with a sardonic quirk of his brow. He brought the cup to his lips. "No one's ever accused me of being a good influence.

Castiel looked him in the face, expression bared by sincerity.

"I have."

"Yeah, and look where it got you."

Castiel missed the regret that flashed over Dean's face at his own words, his eyes falling to the wood top. The angel studied the lines of grain beneath the varnish as he decidedly picked up his whiskey and drank from it. Dean cleared his throat.

"So, since we're both already on our merry path to hell, might as well do some damage and make some money, huh?" His voice was springy with an attempt at light-heartedness as he elbowed Castiel in the arm. "Bet you'd be a killer at cards. Lemme see your poker face.

Castiel turned his face to Dean, mostly devoid of expression save for the somber slant at the corners of his eyes.

"See? You're a natural." Below the surface of the bar, Dean patted his palm twice against the top of Castiel's knee. It lingered only a moment after the second contact, giving a light squeeze before it retracted into his own space. But it was effective. Castiel straightened imperceptibly, the forlorn crease diminishing from his forehead as Dean rambled on, "Teach you to count, and then we really do some damage."

"I can count," Castiel defended. Dean chuckled.

"No, it's a…" He caught himself, deciding on a change of diction, "…well, it's kind of a trick."

Castiel raised a brow. "A cheat?"

"A _skill._ " Dean determined quickly. "Hell, it's all math. You might not even need it… I know a girl who cleans up at cards, no holds barred. She's given every hunter that side of the Ozarks a run for their money at Texas Hold' Em." A softer, intimate chuckle bubbled in his throat and he raised his glass, staring off into a memory as his voice and features melted into a blithe show of admiration. "She's really something, that one..."

Castiel bit out the words before he realized them.

"Why don't you take _her_ to Vegas, then?"

Dean leaned back, regarding him with a look of surprise tinged by amusement. Castiel averted his eyes, somewhat startled at himself.

"Easy there, tiger." Dean tipped in, a smirk teasing his mouth beneath a glint of something delighted in his eyes, "You jealous?"

Castiel's brow furrowed into the identified emotion. _Jealous_. Another chuckle from the man beside him and Castiel burrowed his gaze into the bar top in an attempt to hide what he had already given away.

"No."

"Ah, see, I was wrong." Dean tilted back on the stool, clearly amused. "You'd be shit at poker. Your face is an open book."

Castiel pursed his lips, feeling suddenly exposed as if bared naked beneath Dean's mocking stare.

"Hey," Dean's voice was far away, dampened by Castiel's preoccupation with this discomfort of jealousy and his attempt to understand it. A decidedly ugly feeling that clenched at his chest like a creeping, slimy claw. It wasn't until Dean nudged him with his elbow that Castiel turned to meet his look.

"Don't be jealous of Jo." His assurance was rounded with amusement as Dean's eyes flicked over the rigid features of Castiel's face. "I wouldn't do anything with her." He shrugged, muttering offhandedly into his cup, "Her mom would fuckin' kill me."

The prying insight of a name flared the feeling, clamping down on the tender stretch of the word 'anything,' which wracked Castiel's mind with the implication. He didn't notice Dean smirking at him from the corner of his eye as he sipped his whiskey. He was lost in introspection as he chewed over this new, unpleasant feeling until the sensation registered beneath the bar, and Castiel instantly forgot about the girl who could play poker as he felt the hand slide over his thigh, the tightening of fingers firm over the top of his leg like a claim. This was different than before. Dean cut his glance to the mute angel beside him, not missing the color that marked a sudden increase of blood flow as he murmured low in his throat, "Plus, you're my ace."

Castiel's jealousy was gone.

The hand dragged a few inches up his thigh, the heat from Dean's palm radiating through his slacks as he squeezed a bit. Castiel turned his face but a fraction, catching the moment Dean's pupils widened within green irises as they focused in on him. The black of them grazed slowly down the angel's face, stopping at his mouth before the tip of Dean's tongue appeared, barely, to wet his own bottom lip. Castiel felt the heat ravage his cheeks, enraptured as some faraway realization hit him. This, too, was a flirtation. Only one he wanted not to escape, but to fall into. Dean's gaze flicked to back up to Castiel's eyes, mouth twisting to a smirk that let him know that this action was calculated and purposeful. Castiel felt his heart contort, and knew that his dumb expression had informed Dean that he was every bit affected and powerless as he intended.

Castiel may have beat him in pool, but he was no match for Dean in this game.

The satisfied slant to his features grew suddenly dim as the bar plunged into near-darkness, and the weight of Dean's hand withdrew. Someone in the room gave a small squeal, which was followed by a call of apology and "just a second!" originating from behind the bar. Castiel's frown became illuminated as the space was permeated in a different light—colors of red, purple, and blue sprouting from the walls in directional lights that were positioned in intervals along the ceiling. The brief shift in atmosphere seemed only to bewilder the two men at the bar, as the some twelve-odd people occupying the rest of the room carried on without interruption their conversations. Dean surveyed the room and then turned toward the bartender, perplexed.

"Hey, what gives? You guys closing up this early?"

"Nah, man," the guy behind the bar was adjusting a knob on the wall, eyes turned into the room as certain lights dimmed and others became more pronounced. "Just upping the romance factor. You're welcome."

Dean's brow scrunched. "What for?"

Satisfied with the atmosphere, the bartender nodded at his work and said simply, "It's almost midnight. Might as well."

"Midnight? Really?" Dean turned over his watch in astonishment, huffing a breathy laugh. "Wow, I hadn't realized it was that late. Guess I was having a good time."

Castiel regarded him curiously. "You sound surprised."

"Honestly, I _am_ surprised." Dean pursed his lips in admittance. "It's not really… I'm not exactly the dating type. I'm more of the…not-call-you-back type."

"Well," Castiel considered, a smile touching his lips. "I'm…glad you called me back."

Dean hummed a short, amused sound, returning his smile as he held his glass by the rim.

"You know something? Me too."

A flare of light burst into a glittering barrage around the room, moving slowly counter-clockwise to sparkle against the dull walls, faded carpet, and the few occupants of the bar. Dean turned disbelievingly over his shoulder and squinted at the disco ball hanging down above a small square of space, illuminating the room with flecks of light. As if cued by the shift in atmosphere, several patrons split off into couples and gathered beneath it, the small expanse of space becoming an apparent sort of dance area that Dean hadn't noticed in the normal light. The introduction of a song chimed much louder than before, the volume obviously having increased with the switch in lighting.

"What the hell is going on in here?" Dean wondered aloud.

 _Life is a mystery, everyone must stand alone_

"I was told it is V—"

Dean's groan cut him off as he slapped an exasperated palm to his forehead, the woman's voice inciting immediate dread as Dean recognized the song. "More Madonna? _Really?_ "

 _I hear you call my name  
_ _And it feels like home_

Castiel studied the individuals scattered on the makeshift dance-floor, drinks raised or arms draped around one another, swaying languidly to the music. Suddenly the dull mediocrity of this random bar had become a party. As Castiel scanned the room with interest, he inadvertently caught eyes with the jukebox lady, and averted them just as quickly. Too late. Turning to Dean, he asked hastily over the music, "Should we dance as well?"

Dean laughed, shaking his head. "Uh, yeah, _no_. I'm not dancing to _Madonna._ " He watched Castiel's lips pursed, somewhat bemused by his obvious show of disappointment. Dean nodded toward the dancers, "But you go ahead. I know how you like to boogie."

Castiel's eyes dipped away, avoidant. "That was an…extenuating circumstance."

A hand on his arm drew his attention, and Castiel turned to meet bleary eyes and smeared lipstick.

"Hello again, hanndssome…" she purred, shoulders twitching disjointedly in a sort of off-beat dance. She slurred proudly, "I picked this one."

"You don't say," Dean mused, sliding his forefinger across his chin. He was biting back a grin as Castiel stiffened against her touch.

"I do," she insisted, turning her attention on Dean with a finger raised emphatically. "And I _also_ say…your ffriend promissed me a dance."

"Did he now?" Dean's glance flicked to Castiel, whose face was fixed in a tight, reluctant expression. He began to shake his head.

"No, Dean— I—"

"Well, a promise is a promise," Dean cut him off, his voice ingratiatingly smooth as he gestured out into the room. "You two have fun out there."

The woman gave a sloppy nod, wrapping her arm about Castiel's and herding him to the dance floor, assuring with a wink, "Oh…we will."

Castiel expression darkened at him as he was led away, only causing Dean to chuckle into his drink as he turned back to the bar. The man behind it followed the departing 'couple' with his eyes, then met Dean's. Dean raised his glass towards him in a silent 'cheers' before finishing what little was left.

 _When you call my name, it's like a little prayer  
_ _I'm down on my knees, I wanna take you there  
_ _In the midnight hour I can feel your power  
_ _Just like a prayer you know I'll take you there_

"I might switch to a beer," Dean answered—before being asked—once the bartender crossed to him. The man on the other side of the bar raised a brow.

"Not gonna dance?"

"Tch, not to _this_ ," Dean sneered.

"Really?" he moved toward the taps, grabbing an empty glass. "Seems like your kinda song."

Dean bristled, narrowing his eyes down the bar. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothin'." The reply was light enough as he held the ever-filling glass beneath the beer tap, then with a smirk he added, "Just figured you'd keep a closer eye on _that_ one, after your little display in the corner."

Dean pursed his lips, biting back a reply as the back of his neck grew hot. Of course someone had seen. The bartender caught his glare and gave a faultless shrug.

"Hey, when a guy in a bow-tie walks into a dive bar and orders two blowjob shots, you _gotta_ see how that plays out," he gave a good-natured chuckle, setting the beer in front of Dean. "Say, that sounds like the start to a bad joke…" he rubbed his chin thoughtfully then snapped, pointing his finger like a gun at Dean and winking, "Or to a good night!"

He laughed, clearly amused with himself, and certainly unintentional in his antagonism. Dean's hostility quelled to reserved embarrassment.

 _I hear your voice, it's like an angel sighing  
_ _I have no choice, I hear your voice  
_ _Feels like flying_

"That was…not what it looked like," Dean muttered, unconvincingly.

"Well what it _looked_ like…" he started, leaning in conspiratorially. Dean could smell a faint trace of beer on his breath, and surmised the patrons were not the only ones he had been serving that night. "…is that someone is very lucky on this miserable holiday."

Dean stopped short, confusion punctuating his overwhelming desire to crawl away from the conversation.

"Holiday?" he questioned. The bartender leaned back with a shrug.

"Hate it all you want, but you're either with someone and feelin' good, or drinking yourself into oblivion like I plan to in about…" he raised his wrist and looked at the bare skin on the back of it, "…oh, right about now, I guess."

The bartender turned on his heel toward the taps, depositing a stream of beer into a glass Dean figured was not for anyone else, nor the first of the night. Dean pulled his phone from his back pocket, flipping it open and staring at the time. As the numbers he read registered, an odd mixture of apprehension and shock rattled in his head like an alarm.

 **12:04 am**

 **Sunday, February 14**

Dean swallowed.

 _I close my eyes, oh God I think I'm falling  
_ _Out of the sky, I close my eyes  
_ _Heaven help me_

"And between you and me…" Completely oblivious the jolt he had just delivered, the bartender leaned against the back counter, gesturing out into the room with his beer before taking a sip, "Looks like your Valentine could use a little help.

Dean followed the line of his gaze, glancing over his shoulder to the dance floor behind him. Couples swayed and gyrated, stepping in or out of time to the music, and a dark-haired man in a grey sweater and a bow-tie was receiving lessons on proper hand placement from a woman clad in animal-print, who stood too close as she held his hands against her sides in demonstration—"Here, if you're a gentleman,"— and then slid them low to cup her rear—" _Here_ , if you're not."

"He can handle himself," Dean murmured absently. His eyes were on the angel.

"Oh it's not his handling I'm worried about," the smile was evident in his voice, though Dean didn't look his way. "Charlese can be…aggressive."

 _Life is a mystery, everyone must stand alone  
_ _I hear you call my name  
_ _And it feels like home_

The woman in spots had him all but pinned against her, the large curls of her hair assaulting Castiel's chin as he attempted gracefully keep her affections at bay. He met eyes with Dean, wide and pleading as he swayed unsteadily in her grip. Dean couldn't help a grin as he sipped from his beer, which abandoned his mouth at the bartender's suggestion to the back of his head, "You should help him out, _ace_."

Dean whipped around, not having the search his face to find the knowing glint to his look. The bartender drank his own beer, unbothered at being seen drinking on the job as his grin widened with a shrug. "You were right. We're _always_ listening."

Dean pursed his lips and sighed, the fight knocked out of him. Throwing a resigned glare back across the bar, he grabbed his beer.

 _Just like a prayer, your voice can take me there  
_ _Just like a muse to me, you are a mystery  
_ _Just like a dream, you are not what you seem  
_ _Just like a prayer, no choice your voice can take me there_

"Fucking Madonna," Dean grumbled, rising to the rescue.


	35. Chapter 35 - The Jukebox

_((Long-ass Author's Note: What has happened here?!_

 _The holidays sent my muse away, as things have been rather wild the past couple months. But I'm back, baby!_

 _Also, full disclosure, I didn't realize we were staying in this setting for so long. But as it turns out, the old saying 'write what you know' holds true, and I guess I know a thing or two about hanging out in bars. ALSO #1, several more thousand words than I meant to later, and I realized I should break up the chapters a bit. So having written out of order, it most DEFINITELY will not be as long for the next update (or two. Or three. We'll see.). ALSO #2, thank you so so so much to those who have been with me for however many months its been…and those who have binged and caught up thus far, and let me know you're enjoying the story. Your support and words of encouragement and what-have-you are so meaningful to me, that if it's the last thing I do, I'll finish this fic._

 _Thanks for reading._

 _Let's do this thang.))_

* * *

"Excuse me, miss…"

"Leave me be, Harvey. I'm getting' somewhere."

The pounding beat of Def Leppard's _Pour Some Sugar On Me_ fueled the woman into Castiel in another fervent undulation, who's eyes pleaded to Dean over the frizz of her hair with that helpless, wide-eyed look. Dean stifled his mouth against a grin, his obvious amusement to Castiel's entrapment earning him a glare. He tried again, tapping his knuckles to her shoulder.

"Pardon me, but-"

"I said I was busy-" she barked over her shoulders, glossy eyes coming to focus in on the intruder's face. A delayed moment, and her demeanor softened as she looked Dean up and down. "Oh… _hello_ there…"

Dean flashed her his charming smile. "Mind if I cut in?"

"Not at all," she slurred. Dean realized her misinterpretation of his question as she abandoned Castiel to careen into him, nearly spilling the beer in his hand as he faltered beneath her invasively snug hold.

"Twoo for one? Happy V-" she hiccuped, " -alentine's Day to mee…"

Dean shot a look of apprehension to Castiel, whose expression back suggested he was not at all pitying of Dean's newfound predicament. Dean rolled his eyes. The woman in the cheetah-print grasped him by the wrist, raising it over her head as she stumbled herself into a sloppy twirl. Dean disengaged at the brink of the spin, releasing her to drift between two other couples from the momentum.

To both their surprise, she kept going.

Beneath the disco ball, Castiel and Dean met eyes, the amusement in green ones not quite reflecting in the blue.

"Having fun?"

"No."

Dean grinned, raising his brows.

"Really? You two make a cute couple."

"Dean," Castiel reprimanded. Before Dean's next smart-ass remark, Castiel's eyes darted over his shoulder, foreboding.

"She's coming back."

"Hold this," Dean commanded, handing over his beer.

She returned with outstretched arms—whether for balance or for catching her next prey, no one knew. Her finish line appeared to be Castiel, who Dean surmised—but would never admit—was her apparent favorite. But Dean spun to face her approach, stepping between her and Castiel with a firm grip on either of her arms before she captured her target. She blinked up at Dean as if surprised to see him there, supported from falling over by his hands at her shoulders.

"Hello again," she cooed. Dean held her steady, managing with some effort a patient tone as he looked into her gaze blurred with too many vodka-cranberries.

"Alright now, you had your dance," he said, sounding as if denying a child another cookie. "But it's my turn now, okay?"

She looked reluctantly around his arm at Castiel, who instinctively backed behind Dean. Gratitude and guilt wound around each other with equal fervor; thankfulness at Dean's intervention, and shame at his own artlessness in the matter. Ultimately, relief won out, and Castiel watched his rescuer closely while guarding the beer in his charge.

"Now, don't be fightin' over me," the woman feigned modesty, nearly slipping to the side. Dean held her up—and away from Castiel—with a firm grip. "There'ss plenty to go— _hiccup_ —to share."

Dean exhaled in growing impatience.

"No, what I meant was…" Dean released her shoulders and pursed his lips in dismay. The woman was not just drunk, but obviously intoxicated past the point of delicacy and tact. Getting rid of her was going to take a less subtle approach.

His own buzz might have aided him in it.

Dean whirled to the side, and in one swift motion wrapped a possessive arm around Castiel's middle, pulling him in close.

"He's with me," Dean explained coolly over his shoulder, holding Castiel up against his body. He could feel the sharp, drawn-in breath of the angel expand against his torso, and the wide blue eyes on him, which he dared not meet.

The woman gave a slow blink, her unfocused eyes slipping down to the arm holding Castiel, then up to Dean's face.

"What'dya mean?"

Dean felt a faint and inexplicable satisfaction in the dull shock of her expression, and his grip around Castiel's middle tighten.

"We're on a date."

He heard the words leave his own lips, and was surprised by the conviction in them. Her mouth opened dumbly.

"Nuh-uh…" she denied, but the uncertainty was clear as she studied the closeness with which the men were pressed together. She turned on Castiel, as if they were together in this. "Is that true?"

Castiel didn't take his eyes off Dean as he answered, "Yes."

She blew air through her lips, making an undignified sound in obvious dismissal of their claim. Her hands went to her hips.

"Yeah right," she squinted, skeptical. "Y'all two are on a _date_."

"That's right," Dean assured, impatience amplifying. He could still feel Castiel's eyes on him.

"Prove it."

Dean's eyebrows piqued at the challenge, a part of him bristling in defiance, but when he turned to appraise Castiel's thoughts on the matter, lips were suddenly on his, pressed in an undeniable claim without hesitation. Dean's eyes widened as Castiel kissed him, nearly stumbling back in the demand of it, but his grip around the angel held him steady, and Dean found his eyes fluttering closed and responding into the soft familiarity of Castiel's mouth, the press of it sure and urgent. The challenge of the onlooker faded into the far background as he melted, and Dean's lips parted of their own accord, relishing the polarity of Castiel's warm, soft lips to the rough scratch of the stubble that surrounded them, the desire to taste him again frightfully overwhelming as Dean leaned into the kiss at the same time Castiel broke it.

Dean's eyes twitched open, fixating first on the mouth that abandoned his own, then on the blue eyes that were directed away from him. On someone else.

Dean remembered himself, and the onlooker, and turned his face.

"T-there. See?" Dean tossed, inwardly irked at the falter in his voice. He cleared his throat, swallowing against the rapid beat of his heart. "So, If you wouldn't mind…"

The woman's mouth gaped. Wordlessly, she marked each one of them in turn.

"Oh, I don't mind _at all_." The nefarious glint in her eye had them both leaning away slightly. "But if y'all decide ya _ever_ want a third," a tongue slid over her smeared red lips, "Come find me."

She relieved Castiel of the beer he was holding and sauntered through the small crowd that swayed on the dance floor, stumbling only once as she went. They blinked at her departure, in slight disbelief.

Dean felt Castiel's sigh against him and was first to move.

"You gave away my beer…" he accused sullenly. He turned his face to Castiel, who regarded him with a careful eye.

"I consider the sacrifice well worthy," he grumbled.

Dean laughed, the contracting pulse of his abs pushing into Castiel's stomach at the motion. Castiel noticed, and looked to the space—or rather, the lack thereof—between them.

Dean swallowed, glancing down as well.

"We, uh…" A hesitation, and Dean released his hold from around Castiel's middle, taking a step back. The absence felt as a canyon. Dean's attention zeroed-in on the slightly-askew bow tie at Castiel's neck and he cleared his throat, reaching to it. "We gotta work on your rejection skills, buddy."

Castiel tipped his chin down to follow Dean's fingers to his throat. He watched them a moment as they worked the crooked bow tie.

"She was…persistent."

"I'll say," Dean nearly shuddered. He tugged the corners of Castiel's neckwear straight. "Can't say I blame her, though."

Castiel's eyes flicked to Dean's lips as they curved into a smirk. Dean's hands strayed from the edges of Castiel's bow tie, hovering uncertainly in the air before landing on either of his shoulders. Before they slid down the curve to his arms, Castiel's hands were at Dean's hips, and with a light pressure he guided him into a sway.

Dean looked down, swaying to the right. He looked up, swaying to the left.

"What are you doing?"

"Dancing."

Dean searched his face as they swayed to the right. Castiel caught his look, becoming less certain.

"Am I doing it wrong?"

"You know, we could make a drinking game out of you asking that," Dean chuckled.

Castiel's head tipped. They swayed to the left.

"You said it was your turn."

"Yeah, but," Dean's gaze trailed the line of each of Castiel's arms at each of his hips, in turn. He huffed. They swayed. "We're backwards."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," Dean's hands patted the tops of Castiel's shoulders twice indicatively, "You've got me being the chick."

Castiel's eyes squinted at that. He studied their positioning.

"I am unsure of how the placement of our hands alters your perceived gender."

Dean scoffed, reaching to his own sides to pluck Castiel's hands from them.

"Well, I don't mean— It's not about _gender_ , I guess." Dean deposited the other's fingers firmly at the tops of his own shoulders, and placed his hands about Castiel's sides. "I just…think I should lead."

"Lead?"

"Yeah, see?" With pressure, Dean maneuvered Castiel into a few demonstrating sways. "I'm in control."

Castiel said nothing, instead flicking his eyes first to their four points of contact—Dean's hands on his hips, his hands on Dean's shoulders—then across the others on the dance floor.

The song playing was much more upbeat than the gentle motion of their sway, and others were cavorting in more animated rhythms of movement to match the cadence of it. His quick study conceded that every couple consisted of a man holding the woman with at least one hand at the hip, and the woman had one or both hands shoulder-height, as his were. He watched the rigorous swing of a two-some, the female of which was twirling beneath the raised hand of her male counterpart. She pulled away, on the brink of separation, but their hands never let go, and she was pulled back in, returning to dip from side-to-side, face-to-face with her partner. His hand slipped lower on her back as Castiel watched, turning his face to the other side of Dean's head to keep his observation as they turned.

"I was not aware your skill-set encompassed the art of dance," was all Castiel revealed, unable to tear his eyes from the lilt of their movement.

Dean chuckled.

"I wouldn't say _skilled_ ," he mused, tipping his eyes to the ceiling in memory, "But I did take the rich kid in tenth grade to her cotillion. Pissed her dad right off. I think that was the point."

Dean watched the avid study of Castiel's gaze over his left shoulder, and took his own turn to survey the room as they idly swayed back and forth. He was by no means drunk, but the comforting haze of a heavy buzz dulled his senses and quieted the voice that would rob him of this small act of intimacy among others, none of which seemed to give them the slightest consideration. The small, pathless circle of their feet followed the sparkle of lights emanating from the disco ball above, which shined brightly enough to nearly obscure the room beyond the small space of dance floor, making the area around them seem the only stretch of world in existence. They swayed to their own rhythm, distinctly separate from the music—content in a circular amble of their own devising that rather opposed the upbeat drive of Bon Jovi's _You Give Love a Bad Name._ As Dean's eyes grazed the periphery of the light, the crossed arms and gruff stare of a stranger locked hard onto Dean's. Dean felt his face flush hot, as if caught.

"Dean, what does it mean to _get buck wild_?"

Castiel's question pulled him back. Dean's face contorted into puzzlement, forgetting the stranger.

"What?" Dean snickered, the answer somewhat apparent in his boyish grin. "Why?"

"Because I am unsure of how it is befitting to honor the Saint of courtly love by doing so."

Dean regarded him curiously, waffling between perplexity and amusement.

"The…saint…?" he questioned. Castiel tipped his chin.

"Valentine."

"Ah, so you heard."

Castiel nodded again.

"Dean, why did you not inform me it was a holiday?"

Dean bothered his bottom lip between his teeth, the sway continuing to persuade them into a revolution of its own accord.

"Honestly, Cas…I forgot."

"You forgot?"

"Yeah, which…I'll admit, is a little unusual," Dean granted, somewhat sheepish. "I, uh… tend to be a little more on it."

"You typically celebrate the occasion?"

Dean regarded him with a purse of his lips. His eyes slipped away.

"I wouldn't say _celebrate_. More like _endure_." His voice dropped to a mutter, "Valentine's Day ain't exactly for people like me, y'know?"

"I don't," Castiel countered. "Explain."

Dean's eyebrows drew in slightly, the green orbs beneath them withdrawing from the stark, tactless expression that met him to wander the room. Castiel lost all semblance of sensitivity when he entered human-study mode, and Dean was bothered by the nudge of embarrassment that prodded him from the interrogation on this particular matter.

"I mean, they don't exactly have a Hallmark card that says, 'Hi, lonely monster-hunting drifter here. Wanna bang?'" The bitter tone that seeped into his own voice surprised him. Dean shrugged it off. "It's just not for me. And I get by just fine with my own traditions, anyway…"

Castiel's head tipped.

"What traditions?"

Dean stopped short, the stutter to their rhythmic swaying betraying his attempt at nonchalance as he shrugged. Castiel searched his face. Dean's gaze slipped, avoiding. His silence was his answer, heavy with self-reproach. Their movement stilled.

Perhaps it was not so unusual to celebrate the occasion of Saint Valentine's Day by _getting buck wild._

Castiel blinked, relenting his stare.

"What makes this year any different?" He asked quietly, the slight sour sting of it unintentional. A faint sensation of that new slimy feeling threatened to claw at him.

"Well…" Dean began slowly. The pressure from one of his hands guided Castiel's hips to the right. "I've never had a Valentine before, so there's that."

Castiel's look was evasive. Dean pulled his hips to the left and dipped his head into his sightline. Castiel failed to dodge his stare.

"You did… want to be my Valentine, right?" Dean asked, a clear tease in the raise of his brows. Castiel glanced to the sly curve of his lip, then back to his eyes, watchful. Their sway continued beneath his notice.

"What does being one's Valentine entail?" he asked, cautiously.

"Putting up with my shit, for one." Dean's face broke into a full smirk. "Which you seem to be handling pretty well so far."

"What else?"

"What else?" Dean's gaze drifted to the ceiling, chin shifting to the side in thought. He used less pressure as they found their former rhythm, sidling back and forth as their feet made a small circle on the floor. "Uh, let's see here…There's, uh…"

Whatever ideas might have come were interrupted as the hard riffs of Bon Jovi faded, allaying to a soft guitar intro that lit Dean's features with familiarity.

"Hey, now…" The beginnings of recognition sparked into certainty, breaking Dean's mouth to a broad smile as Axl Rose crooned the opening lines of _Knockin' on Heaven's Door_. He gripped Castiel's hips with a more pronounced intention, guiding them both into a back-and-forth lean that actually matched the beat of the song for once. "Now _this_ I can groove to."

Castiel straightened, the slight in his shoulders rising.

"I picked this."

The look Dean shot him was clearly impressed, if not touched by slight disbelief.

"You did?"

Castiel nodded.

"We heard it. On the drive."

Dean tilted his head to the ceiling, lips parted in a mirthful expression.

"Huh, no kidding. You're right." When he turned his eyes back on Castiel, they shone with an obvious approval that thrilled him. "Good memory."

For a few moments, neither spoke, simply listened as the chorus struck its first line. That same feeling of freedom and soaring wracked Castiel's bones as it had in the car as they revolved in their own little circle. He looked to the hunter whose shoulders he held in his palms, and the blatant expression of enjoyment reflected on both their faces. His appreciation of the song was solidified, if not magnified in the moment.

"I think I understand it now," Castiel blurted, almost to himself.

Dean's eyebrows raised in interest. "Oh yeah?"

Castiel gave a hasty nod, his mind racing to put words to his thoughts. To these _feelings_.

"And what does it mean?" Dean questioned, almost teasingly. Castiel swallowed, wishing he had kept his mouth shut a moment more to achieve some semblance of eloquence to apply to the sensation wracking like a bell toll in his chest. He breathed deep, attempting to quell a sudden nervousness as the song played loud overhead.

"I am…knocking at your door, Dean."

Castiel stole a glance at him. A laughter sparked in Dean's eyes that only escaped his lips as a hint beneath his tone.

"I know, Cas."

Castiel blinked, taken aback.

"You do?"

"Yeah," Dean huffed, a half-laugh. "You're not very subtle."

Castiel's eyes slid down to the middle of Dean's chest, where he hoped the rotating lights of the dance floor obscured the flush to his cheeks. Dean hadn't seemed put off by his admission, though he wasn't sure if amusement was the desired reaction either.

"This is all very new to me." He ventured a glance up to the man's eyes, who chuckled beneath his breath before his own gaze slid away. "I was told you should know."

"Believe me, Cas. You've made it pretty clear." Dean dropped his voice, teasing. "I'm well aware of your interest in my back door."

The adrenaline of his confession quickly diverged to confusion as Castiel tilted his head.

"Back door?"

Dean stole a glance at him, brow arched in gibe.

"That's not what you meant?" Dean leaned forward to bring his face close to Castiel's cheek, the hot breath from his mouth brushing the angel's ear. "You're not talking about getting in my _rear_ entrance again? Because you already won the bet, so…"

It dawned on him Dean's misunderstanding, and a blush of a different nature torched the back of his neck. Dean caught his bewildered expression and couldn't keep a laugh down this time, the bright sound of it mixing with the wailing guitar and chorus of voices to drown the thoughts and feelings and words Castiel had felt so near to declaring. His head sunk a bit between his shoulders.

"That's…not what I meant," Castiel managed, humiliated.

"What did you mean, then?" Dean challenged, the curve of his lip nearly mocking in its amusement. But the swelling in Castiel's chest from before had squelched and the words at the tip of his tongue were no longer forthcoming. Dean licked his bottom lip, grinning. "Are you trying to be gross?"

"No," Castiel met his eye, and wilted again. "I was trying to be…romantic."

The upward slant of Dean's mouth dropped slightly.

"Romantic?" Dean's voice cracked.

"Yes." Castiel shamed him with his sincerity.

Dean swallowed, taunting smile all but diminishing.

"Well, uh… I hate to say it, Cas, but…" Dean leaned in to disclose his secret. His voice descended to nearly a whisper. "You do know…this is not a romantic song, right?"

A line formed in the crease of Castiel's forehead, and he drew back to fix a hard stare onto Dean's face.

"What do you mean?"

Mirth returned to Dean's eyes, along with a breathy chuckle. He shook his head helplessly.

"It's about someone about to die…"

The last of Castiel's confidence withered, and his hands slipped from Dean's shoulders, defeated.

"Hey, hey," Dean chased his downcast stare, bending into his line of sight. "It's still a good song. A _great_ song. A classic!"

Castiel regarded him with a guarded expression before his blue eyes swept across the room. Only two couples remained in the vicinity of the dance floor, swaying to the croon of Guns 'n Roses melody. Castiel's hands hung limp at his sides beneath the disco lights, and all manner of swaying ceased as he fell still.

"The perplexing matter of what qualifies as romance still confounds me," he muttered, almost sullenly.

"Hey, you and me both." Dean's hands dropped from holding Castiel's hips, leaving a cool absence in the wake of their warmth. To Castiel's surprise, calloused fingers gripped each of his hands where they hung at his sides, and Dean raised them to replace their station at the hunter's shoulders. Dean covered Castiel's hands with his palms a moment, until he was sure they were staying put, then regained his position as lead, gripping just above Castiel's hips with a little firmer pressure. "If you ask me, it's a little overrated."

Castiel met his eye, finding the smile tracing the upward curve of his lips easy and kind. And infectious. Castiel returned a small one of his own, feeling marginally less foolish. The music continued overhead, the chorus of voices repeating the final calls of the song as they fell quiet, listening. Castiel looked past Dean's shoulder to the jukebox, his eyes remaining focused on it as they turned in their continuous swaying circle.

"Which song would you consider to be… romantic?" he inquired absent-mindedly, his eyes lit as the glowing colors of the jukebox they fixated on.

Dean scoffed at the question, immediately catching the trail of Castiel's look. He followed it over his shoulder to the machine.

"What, you want me to pick out a _love song_?" he sneered, turning back to Castiel.

He was met with that blank stare of his.

Incredulity quickly molted into deliberation that flirted with his features as Dean's eyes flicked over the unflinching sincerity of Castiel's look. Dean held his eye a moment before his shoulders went lax, hands dropping from the angel's hips. He rolled his eyes.

"Alright, fine," he sighed, glancing back at the machine that glowed against the wall. "You get us some beers, and I'll go see what they've got in the ol' box…"

Castiel gave a sharp nod, the enthusiasm in it apparent with the quick whirl of his body towards the bar.


	36. Chapter 36 - The Joke

Guitars. Then drums.

Dean drank from his beer. Castiel cocked his head toward the ceiling. From over the rim of his glass, Dean's secret smirk watched him.

 _She was a fast machine,  
_ _She kept her motor clean,  
_ _She was the best damn woman I had ever seen!  
_ _She had the sightless eyes,  
_ _Telling me no lies,  
_ _and knockin' me out with those American thighs!_

A light groove from one foot to the other was all the dance Dean mustered as his fingers snapped to the beat. Castiel's eyes narrowed by the verse, nearly into slits as he listened intently. They slid to Dean, who seemed enthralled by the pulsing beat and strained shriek of what Castiel would feel generous anointing the title 'singer.'

 _'Cause the walls started shaking,  
_ _The earth was quaking,  
_ _My mind was aching,  
_ _And we were making it and you…_

Dean pumped his fist in front of himself, wailing along with the music,

 _Shook me aaall niiight long!  
_ _Yeah you!  
_ _Shook me aaall niiight long!_

Castiel watched him analytically, mystification amplifying with each passing refrain. Dean closed his eyes as he rocked out, his free hand animated to the wild pulse of the song.

 _Working double time,  
_ _On the seduction line!  
_ _She was one of a kind, she's just mine all mine!  
_ _Wanted no applause,  
_ _Just another course!  
_ _Made a meal out of me and came back for more!_

"This is…" Castiel began uncertainly, having to near shout over the din of the music.

"Awesome?" Dean guessed.

"Loud," Castiel decided. Out of all the descriptions that came to mind, this seemed the least offensive. Dean took a large drink of beer, grinning into it at Castiel's bewildered expression.

"What, not what you had in mind?"

 _Had to cool me down—  
_ _To take another round,  
_ _Now I'm back in the ring to take another swing!_

"No," Castiel admitted, perplexed. He strained his ears, trying to will understanding to dawn on him. The shrill cry of the guitar failed to illicit any. "But this is…considered a romantic song?"

Dean smirked wickedly.

"In my book, it is."

Castiel's jaw set, eyes turning back up to the ceiling. He listened harder, if it were possible. Perhaps the chaos of its sound was deceiving, as the melodic drift of _Knockin' on Heaven's Door_ had fooled him. He strained to make out the words.

 _'Cause the walls were shaking,  
_ _The earth was quaking,  
_ _My mind was aching,  
_ _And we were making it and you—  
_ _Shook me aaall niiiight long!  
_ _Yeah you!  
_ _Shook me all night long!_

Castiel perked up slightly.

"Is shaking a person a form of affection with which I am unfamiliar?"

Dean nearly spat some of his beer back into the glass.

"No," he sputtered, wiping his chin beneath a stifled grin. "It's a…euphemism."

"For?"

Dean paused to lick his bottom lip.

"For sex."

Castiel blinked. The startled confusion of his expression drew a snicker out of Dean. Castiel's eyes fell to the beer in his hand beneath brows that drew together.

"Is it an…expression of a romantic nature?" He ventured uncertainly. He was staring down into the golden liquid, frustration mounting as the pieces of this puzzle slipped further from his grasp. As Dean watched his expression darken, the deep furrow of the angel's forehead nudged him toward an inkling of guilt. He drank from his own cup.

"No, it's a—" Castiel's eyes snapped up, and the searching manner in which he hung on Dean's words unnerved his fun. He dropped the tease and sighed, admitting reluctantly, "It's a joke."

 _And knocked me out and then you…  
_ _Shook me all night long!_

Perplexity of a different nature took over Castiel's expression, and he studied the lines of Dean's face with a hard look.

"I do not get the joke."

 _You had me shakin' and you—  
_ _Shook me aaall niiight long!_

Dean's smirk diminished, and his rhythmic stepping slowed as he shamefully rubbed the back of his neck.

"It's just a song about…having sex," he admitted.

"And you consider that…romantic?" Castiel questioned.

Dean gave a vague gesture, looking contrite with a shrug.

"I consider it funny?"

 _Yeah, you shook me,  
_ _Well, you took me!_

Castiel abandoned the task of deciphering any notion of romanticism in the song. He pushed his glass of beer into Dean's chest, nearly sloshing it over the edge onto his shirt before Dean took it.

"C'mon, Cas, it was just a joke," Dean raised both beers in his hands helplessly at Castiel's back, who had turned and stepped away towards the bar. "What's your problem?"

The angel stopped at the periphery of the disco ball's circular light on the edge of the dance floor. He stopped, but didn't turn back.

"That is the problem, Dean. You're not taking this seriously."

"Serious? Who's being serious, here?" Dean nearly laughed, incredulous. "I thought you were having fun."

"And I thought you were teaching me about romance."

Castiel's voice came sour over his shoulder, as the turn of his head was all he offered. Dean took a step, face twisting with the shake of his head at the angel's back.

"Listen, Cas, buddy, _romance_ ain't exactly my thing." He practically sneered the word. "If you want someone who'll…write you poetry and watch chick flicks and _make love_ to you, I hate to tell ya this, but that just ain't me."

He reached the brink of swirling light where Castiel stood, each hand full of beer impeding his ability to do much more than wait in the small silent stand-off that ensued.

Castiel turned to face him, but instead of meeting Dean's look with temper or hurt, an unexpected wonder piqued in the slant of his eyes when the blue of them landed on the man.

He regarded Dean with a cautious curiosity for a moment.

"…'Make love?'" he questioned, the languid form of his lips around the phrase like a new taste.

Dean blinked, lightly taken aback.

"Yeah?"

"What does that mean?"

Dean drew the beers out to either side in an indistinct shrug.

"It's a term for…you know, _doing the dirty_."

Castiel squinted.

"Are you talking about intercourse?"

A tip of his head to either side showed his ambivalence before Dean granted tentatively, "Yeah, kinda."

Castiel's head quirked in response. He frowned at Dean, confused.

"But you _do_ do that."

A harsh bite of a laugh left the man.

"I don't _make love_ , Cas. I fuck."

"What's the difference?"

"See…" A look like remorse drew between the space of his brows as he peered from beneath them at the angel. "…If you have to ask that, then you've never been made love to."

Castiel blinked, the cascade of thoughts working through his mind playing plain as day across his eyes as they darted to the corners of Dean's expression, searching. Uncomprehending. Dean held them a moment before his gaze slipped away, guilty with a weight he avoided naming. He raised his glass and drank long from his beer, nearly finishing it before holding Castiel's untouched one toward him, outstretched between them in offering.

"What'dya say we get out of h—"

"You're wrong."

Castiel's mouth was a tight line. Dean stole a wary glance at him, withdrawing his hand.

"Oh yeah?"

"I'm aware of your aversion to 'chick films' and that written word is not a preferred form of expression for you, but…" he spared Dean the heat of his gaze, sliding it to the side, "…you do make love."

Dean's expression darkened with something pained, and he pursed his lips.

"Look, Cas, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but what—" He tossed his head vaguely, "— _that_ is—doesn't qualify."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not—I don't—" Dean grunted, taking a breath. He lessened the gap between them, sensing the wail of the rock music overhead as an adequate muffler to afford their conversation some semblance of privacy, since the hard, prying stare of the angel before him eliminated any prospect of taking it elsewhere. Still, his voice abated to a low growl between his teeth. "What I do. What I _did_ , was not romantic. It was sloppy, drunk, and frankly a little embarrassing. It wasn't— _that._ At all _._ "

"I disagree."

"Well your lack of experience in the matter might have something to do with it," Dean bit out, then immediately lowered his voice again. "Trust me on this one, Cas. I know."

Castiel's head tipped, and something like interest dawned in his features.

"You were drunk."

"Yeah, and that's my only excuse for the way I—" he stopped, huffed, frowning off to the side. "I mean, it certainly wasn't my best work by far—"

"No, I mean you don't remember."

"Oh, I remember," Dean assured beneath raised brows. He took a breath with a slow shake of his head, near wistful as his gaze trailed off beyond Castiel's shoulder. His glass raised to his lips as he murmured into it, "Trust me, I might have been drunk but I …definitely… remember."

He drank. Castiel's eyes narrowed to slits.

"Not as I do."

"Yeah, well, you might want to take off those rose-colored glasses of yours, Cas, and see it for what it is."

"I don't wear glasses."

"Well you should start, because you're apparently blind." Dean's clenched jaw buckled beneath Castiel's stare. "Look, I'm sorry to have set the bar so low that you think that whole mess was something it wasn't, but I'll give it to you straight. What's happened these last few months—it wasn't romance. It wasn't right. And it sure as hell wasn't _making love_."

Castiel's head cocked.

"It's you who can't see."

"See what?" Dean growled. An arm raised toward him.

"What it was."

With two beers in hand, Dean couldn't dodge the fingers that made contact with his forehead.


End file.
